Prisoner of the Court
by guacamole.window
Summary: A British girl in Paris, imprisoned wherever she turns. The darker side of the gypsies. Clopin/OC, but not sickly. Rated M for language and violence. apologies for bad french, please R/R
1. Puppeteer

**Authors note**: this story begins a year and a half before the events of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Don't be alarmed, time will pass fast. It won't disturb the action, eg. OCs do NOT dance in Esmeralda's place at the Festival of Fools. The story is a mix of the book and the Disney film (I know that kills some people, but sorry, I mean Phoebus I can deal with, but gargoyles? no.) so Gringoire appears, but not Sister Gudule (sorry). I tried my best to make the situations and names appliable to the era, (sorry, can be a bit difficult when naming Gypsies)

please R/R!

* * *

Finally, time had caught up with her. And she could not feel more wretched.

A young woman walked down a street in Paris, and wished she could marvel at it. It was summer, 1480, and any other stranger would be watching the citizens as they went about their daily life. Men bickered with bakers over the price of bread nowadays, forgetting their children who ran through the roads, crying out for each other with delight, only wanting to play. A solitary leaf fluttered gently on the dawn's breeze, but the girl could not care to notice or even wonder where it came from, hanging her head, watching the cobbles below her feet.

"Katerina!"

Her head snapped up, as a voice broke through her forlorn reverie. She blinked, surprised by the sudden light inflicted upon her eyes.

"Sorry. Just thinking."

A man a little older was walking alongside her.

"Well stop. You know what happens when you think. You get... ideas." He shuddered.

She smiled, and hit her brother playfully on the arm.

"Well, take my mind off the horrors of the future then, o great one." She smiled up at him, giving a mocking bow.

"Uh, well... you could" she watched him wrack his brains, enjoying his brief speech deficiency , "... visit... someone?"

She snorted. "Perfect. Wonderful plan. In fact, I love it. Who?"

"uh... who was that girl you were talking to yesterday.. uh... Ysabel der something? And don't snort, it's not lady-like" he snapped back, and then laughed as she tossed back her head with a theatrical snort, attracting stares from passersby.

"eugh. Ysabel d'Orgemont. And WE weren't talking. She was."

"I realised. I could hear her from across the room, shrill little thing. But it's your own fault you can't understand her. You never even try to learn any French. It makes no sense, Katerina."

"Well, _Hugh_, did you consider that I don't want to understand those simpering brats? All I can get is something about how gypsies will kill us all. The rest I'm guessing. I reckon it was fashion, she kept pointing to her sleeves. Don't use my name like that, you sound like mother."

Typical Katerina, only remembering the French for death and destruction. "Then try harder. You'll never make any acquaintances," he pointed out.

She laughed, kicking at a pebble "I don't need acquaintances. I've got you! And you can hardly talk. Yesterday you told someone you only understood a 'petit-pois de français'. "

He persisted, ignoring her mockery, "But you won't be able to understand what you own husband-" he froze, as she raised an eyebrow. "whoops."

"yup. Great. Nice going Hugh. Great 'keeping my mind off it.'" She sighed. "But I can't avoid my impending doom, can I?" Her brother hesitated "Can I?", she pleaded, hoping for an escape to come flying from her brothers lips.

"Stop it. You can't run away from this, Kat. You know I can't stay forever, and you are going to have to make a new life here." She looked up at him, irritated suddenly.

"No, you stop Hugh. Stop saying can't and must and... ugh. You're being so ..." she trailed off, suddenly distracted for the first time that morning.

A tambourine was beating out a rhythm across the area they had now entered. She watched, transfixed by the music spilling out towards them, growing faster and faster, and the tune captivated her, as she began to stray towards the performers, until a figure stopped her.

"What are you doing? Don't go too close." She looked up into her brother's face, as disbelief clouded hers.

"What? You can't mean... what's happened to you? What happened to my brother? He used to be so different." She walked away, spilling a few coins into the ragged hat extended by the gypsy band. One of them, an aged man with hollow cheeks, nodded in acknowledgement, and smiled, displaying a glorious lack of teeth.

"I thought you didn't have any money on you?" Hugh said as the siblings set back towards their house.

"I didn't. You do though." Katerina kept her gaze fixed in front of her, as she walked on. "Well, did." she added, with a slight smile.

"Hey! That was my..." Hugh's annoyance with his sister faded, as he remembered childhood years, not so long gone past. "Pickpocket."

She shrugged, "Old habits die hard." But her thoughts were still clouded with the future as they continued down the road, towards the rented lodgings.

* * *

The next day she found herself again listening to girls apparently her age. Ysabel had taken it upon herself to frenchify her, as she thought of it. She jabbered in French to the others, and then occasionally passing to speak to Katerina in broken English.

"You look dark."

She was taken upstairs and had one of the d'Orgemont maids blending yet more powder onto her face, hiding the faint remains of freckles, whilst two other girls twittered about behind her, playing with each other's hair. At least hers was real.

She wasn't ungrateful for their interest in her. At least they spoke to her, even if it was through curiosity. Many of the others wouldn't. They heard British accent and the only response would be suspicion. They were polite, but she knew they did not trust her. She had learned to keep silent, even when walking the streets of Paris. Even a few words would lead to muttered rumours and sideways glances. It was unusual for her. She never used to be so reserved, but the society she had entered demanded it of her. Once she would run through the streets of London with her brother, barefoot, not caring about the dirt, nor the disapproving looks of the adults around her. The family came into money later in her life, sometime around her fourteenth year. Her mother realised how she was suddenly in need of civilised children, and so began Katerina's education. Sewing, reading, elegant speech, dressmaking, singing the list went on and on. She had no enthusiasm for any of it. Nor for the suitors her mother scanned through. Eventually it was decided. Her father needed contacts across the channel, and one senior merchant was in want of a wife. Guillaume Langnelet. She spent one more month in England, supposedly being taught French, before being sent across to Paris with Hugh. One week of meeting different women and ranking officials, all of whom seemed to blend into each other. Two hours spent in a room with her future husband seemed enough time for him. Two seconds was enough for her. She was under strict instructions from her father: be polite, hold your tongue, and above all, do not mention your childhood.

Guillaume Langnelet did not appear cruel as such, but could be short tempered. As a widower and at 45 years of age he had little care for others. He would glance across at Katerina, ask a few words (in French), to which she need not have a response. Letters from her father told him all he needed to know. She was thankful he cared little for fashion, although he did have a penchant for expensive furnishings which she couldn't understand. But it was hurting her to imagine a future with him. A future filled with half-smiles, and doing what was instructed. She'd rather hide inside the walls of the Langnelet house in silence, than put on a smile and pretend to be fine. It would not be a barbaric life, but it would have no joy, no freedom, and that was no real life. Another week and she would be married, Hugh would not wait more than a few days before returning to London, she knew he would not stay and watch his younger sister suffer. And then she would be alone.

* * *

Another day melded into another, and the countdown to her wedding strolled on relentlessly. She and her brother were taken by Langnelet to the church they were to be married in, Église Saint Gervais et Saint-Protais. She didn't care for it much. It was beautiful, but the upcoming event seemed to cast a shadow over it. When Langnelet told them he had work to attend to, she suggested they see more of Paris. Langnelet did not object, but as they set out, Hugh seemed concerned.

"You can't even remember the street names. Why bother seeing more?", he pointed out, during the journey.

"Juliote was talking about the cathedral, Notre Dame earlier. I've never seen it."

He was surprised by this; one of those foolish girls was interested in the cathedral? Still, if she wished to explore the city further than the near streets, he was hardly going to argue. Notre Dame was closer to the rented house than Église Saint-Gervais et Saint-Protais, but the only protest Katerina had made about the wedding was that she did not want a large one. As it was Langnelet's second marriage, he was willing to save the money, as he was not as high ranking as he once was. The smaller church was adequate.

Little did Hugh know where his sister's real interests lay. She had understood enough of the fluid words which came from Juliote to understand that events happened near the Notre Dame de Paris. The girl had spoken for about an hour, and Katerina had caught small flourishes of her speech. Apparently the area was rife with gypsies, and she could have sworn she had heard wolves mentioned too. She knew of the gypsies, who she supposed would vary in Paris as they did in London, some kinder, some more dark in their entertainment. Despite spending much time in the streets, she had few friends throughout her childhood, after one had been arrested, after being caught stealing. His name was Thomas, and he had never been seen again. She avoided getting too close to other so-called urchins, but whilst some of the gypsy children avoided her and her brother, others would not, and they seemed to her to be no different from the rest of the street children. She had no true concept of money as a child. She stole small amounts out of badly concealed money-bags, and would slip a few coins into her father's without his knowledge each month. The rest she often shared with others. It wasn't that she was generous; she just didn't feel a need for it, and knew that others did. She developed her thieving habits purely from boredom, and sometimes it was difficult to forget.

As she stepped from the carriage however, she was overcome by the sight of the cathedral. She walked up the steps, mesmerised. She spent what must have been a couple of hours inside, gazing at of the engravings, the stained glass windows, transforming the air around with streams of colour. She was interrupted as Hugh was attempting to read an engraving, by a heavy door opening. A tall figure exited, and closed the door behind him, before turning to see the two of them watching. She recognised his face, as being one of the officials. "Judge Claude Frollo." She curtseyed, not quite low enough, noticing was carrying a small woven basket. He saw her small frown as she wondered what he had been doing, emerging from what appeared to be the entrance the bell tower, and cleared his throat.

"Hugh Rutherford, I believe?" he addressed her brother in English, before turning to her "and Katerina. I suppose it isn't long until your wedding is it?" not waiting for an answer, he gestured for them to join him as he swept across the floor, towards the huge doors leading to the parvis. He cast a loathsome glance at a beggar sat in the corner. "I have business to attend to. We will undoubtedly meet again soon." He turned to his carriage, leaving the siblings watching the area in front of them. His presence made Katerina feel uneasy. As Hugh made for the carriage, she stopped him.

"No, I need to walk a little. Clear my head."

"Fine, but only a few minutes. We need to get back." He sighed, as they set out down another lane, with high walls, and railings separating the street from the Cathedral behind.

"You don't have to come."

"You know I do. You can't walk around on your own anymore. You'll need at least a... Katerina?" he broke off, realising his sister wasn't listening.

She was looking at a brightly coloured caravan, sitting in the shadow of the imposing Cathedral. Children were gathered round it, watching a puppet show. She smiled, listening to them giggle at a high pitched voice which squealed as its puppet counterpart was hit with a stick.

"Katerina!" she looked back again "What's wrong with you today?"

* * *

The puppeteer was breifly diverted from his show. As he played out the final scene, with the male puppet and the female puppet running away from the city to marry, he half-listened to a conversation he could not fully understand.

What sounded to him to at first to be a couple was arguing. It sounded as though the man was admonishing the girl for something. With a smile and a flourish, he finished his show, and the children cheered and applauded, before running to their parents, begging for money to give. The noise made the girl look up at again, and this time she caught sight of him as he stood up straight again. The man tapped her on the arm, trying to get her attention again. No, he thought, perhaps not a couple. As she returned her attention to the man, he appraised the situation further. Their clothes were not overly lavish, but well made, indicating some wealth at least. The man was taller, a little thickset perhaps, but as he was turned away from the caravan, the puppeteer could not see his face. The girl, however, he could see. She was young, slightly gangly, and he could tell that she was not accustomed to the clothes she was wearing; by the way she slouched a little, leaning on one leg. She could not be described as a beauty, but there was something agreeable about her features, which was distorted as she looked up at her companion (a suitor, perhaps?) in irritation. There was defiance in her reply, and a little disgust as she looked him up and down. Then she prodded him back, and raised an eyebrow. Probably not a suitor, then. His reply was more gentle this time, but all this earned him was a muttered response as she looked away, before pulling a face at him. Siblings. Undoubtedly brother and sister. They sounded English, but there was a foreign hint underlying it which he could not recognise.

They were interrupted by a citizen who had heard them.

"anglais racaille! Sors d'ici, allez vous faire foutre!"

He saw some of the resemblance in their features, as the man turned. He didn't seem to understand their attacker, but he did not need to, the accusation in his voice was enough. The girl however, appeared to, and hurled a muttered flurry of words back, which the puppeteer could not hear, before her brother took her firmly by the arm, apologising, and walking her back out the way they had come in.

The puppeteer began to pack up, as dusk fell, taking offered coins from the children with a smile, and promised to return the next day. Stupid girl. If she wanted to remain unnoticed, she should hold her tongue.


	2. Gypsy

The day had come and gone faster than she had expected. Even the wedding itself, against all odds. She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she nearly missed the droning priest's prompt for her to speak. She hated Latin. Then, she signed her name away.

Katerina Ruyerfurd

It seemed a pity. She was fond of that name. Well, the last part, and that was the one that was being replaced. As she walked out of the church she smiled at her brother, it seemed best to lie to him. She hadn't spoken to him since he had lectured her the week before, and soon he would leave. He might have known she wouldn't be happy, but she could pretend to try, for his sake. He only stayed for two more days. She couldn't blame him.

A week later, she was walking in the street with her husband. It was the first time she had chosen to venture outside of the house since the wedding. She held his arm as they walked, but was careful not to walk to close. She couldn't stand touching him. There was no real closeness between them. She was obligated to act as his wife, both day and night, but she did not have to show affection. He had snapped at her earlier for tripping over as they left the house, and he did not seem to harbour any fondness for her. As he paused to speak to an acquaintance she should probably have recognised, she let go of him, and looked around her. A group was watching a gypsy dancing to a song she had heard before, playing through the street near the house. She watched her, long hair free from any headdress, which whipped around her beautiful face as she danced. The gold bangles on her arm clinked rhythmically, as she moved, beating her tambourine. The effect was mesmerising. Unbeknown to Katerina, she was being watched herself.

* * *

A gypsy was watching the area. Esmeralda's audience was growing, although he could still see others who walked past, deliberately not pausing to turn and watch. A young child was being dragged away by his mother, and on the other side of the street, two taller men were speaking in low voices. It was only after watching them for a few seconds that he realised there was someone else with them. As he looked closer, he realised it was the English girl he had seen last week. She looked different, downcast, and was somehow blending into the shade cast by the walls, as she looked across at Esmeralda. So was one of these men this another brother? Too old. Father? Possible. He looked at them again. One of them he knew, a lawyer named Baizelat. He had stopped his companion to watch the band. Good. But the second man did not appear to enjoy the show. He walked on, and the girl sighed and fell into step next to him. So she was married to him. She scanned the road, and for a moment, her eyes seemed to linger on the alley where he stood, half-concealed in the shadow. Then she blinked, and continued on. However, as they passed the band, he saw her slip a hand from what her husband's pocket, and drop two coins into the hat on corner. But her husband heard the chink as they fell, and turned to her, raising an hand as one might do to a dog, before pausing, and pushing her before him, throwing a look of deep loathing at the band, and then at his wife. He could not have noticed that it was his money, clearly this man had no tolerance for gypsies. He would be looking for a guard to arrest them. It was time to leave. He whistled loudly, and the band broke up, Esmeralda scooping up the hat of money as they skipped through a side alley, to find another place to perform.

* * *

The next few weeks that followed, refused to move as fast, in fact they dragged. She had been taught to run a house by her mother, but she had little care. Whenever her maid came to her, and asked her falteringly if she had any wishes, she had only one response:

"faire ce que vous choisissez est le meilleur"

The maid understood well enough – she just didn't care. The servants left her to her own devices, often appearing afraid of her. When she pressed her maid, she discovered that the previous lady of the house had been a harsh mistress. But she stubbornly refused to make this household hers, either by interacting with the staff, or by running it herself. Occasionally visitors came to the house, usually the various girls who she had been introduced to when she first arrived in Paris. They jabbered as usual, and she'd occasionally smile or laugh along with the others, purely because they expected her too. And throughout the time she never listened. Never cared. She just thought. Dreamt. Once or twice, it got her into trouble. She often neglected to eat much at supper, and one night, when she was staring at a now empty glass of wine, Langnelet shouted across the table at her. She jumped at the sudden noise, and attempted to hear what he was saying, but he spoke so fast, she only caught a few words. It sounded like it was criticism of her. She knew he was disappointed with her, but also liked the fact that she was not an expense. She was useful.

He paused for a moment. Then he spoke in a more malicious tone, smiling a little, but it seemed that his words were no longer directed at her. She was about to return to her thoughts, reaching for a freshly filled glass of wine, when she recognised a name – Frollo.

She looked up at her husband, and tried harder to understand. Anything that Judge Frollo was doing worried her. Again, the speech was too fluent, but she caught a little; there was something about the gypsies, how he was searching for them, although after years, he still had no real leads. Somehow this lifted her spirits a margin, the idea of Judge Frollo, the gaunt man lying awake at night, wracked with both stress and fatigue from his endless searching. At least someone else lost sleep over the wreck their life had become.

* * *

One night in mid November, with her husband away, and the servants asleep, Katerina gave into the temptation which had been nagging at her for days. She crossed the room in her long nightgown, and opened a large wooden jewellery box, with a carved lid. She lifted out the small amount of jewellery she owned, and lifted the fake base. Two items we beneath it, a necklace made from leather and wooden beads, and nestled in it, a small double edged knife with a simple sheath and belt. The necklace had been one of the few things she ever bought for herself, from a street seller, on single journey to the outskirts of London during her childhood. The knife was one that Thomas had been admiring before his arrest. One month later, she bought it, as a personal reminder never to get too close, because she would be let down. She didn't take it too seriously, but there was something in the back of her mind which still prevented her from becoming dependent upon others. She used to go through weeks of pushing her brother away, only to return to normal one day. She knew it unnerved him, but it kept him on edge, she could relax around him, but she would never tell him exactly what was on her mind. She drew a finger along the length of the blade. She'd never used it as such, but she used to like having it on her. She resisted the temptation to put on the necklace, and quickly packed up the box, shoving it back under the bed. She lay on the bed.

A few minutes of thought and she had made up her mind. As quietly as possible, she slipped into the servants quarters, and stole a dress from one of the younger maids. She went back to her room, and tried it on. It seemed to fit well enough. But if she was going to do this, she would do it her way. Right. She tore the arms off, up to the shoulder, and then the neck, then some of the hem. That was it. No going back now. She ran back to the box, and pulled out the necklace and the knife. She strapped the belt around her waist, and then thought twice, wrapping it twice around her thigh. It felt a little tight when she strained, but it was bearable. The necklace would bounce if she ran, so she tied it around her left ankle. That was it. She sat down for a moment and stretched her feet out, clicking her ankles. Her feet were still a little sore from the ill fitting shoes they had been crammed in all day. She shook herself. She had spent too much time thinking, for the past two months. It was not or never. She quickly searched the room, taking her money bag, and placing a few pieces of jewellery that had been given to her for her wedding in it, knocking over a candle in the process, which she quickly blew out. She bundled the scraps of the dress up with the money bag, using her necklace to tie them all together, before blowing out the remaining lights. Thank God it was a full moon. Holding the end of her necklace in her teeth, she slipped out of the window, and, with effort, heaved herself onto the roof. She hauled herself up onto the roof, nearly slipping on the late night frost. It would be easier to leave this way, rather than risk being seen by a servant, woken by a creaking door. She breathed for a few second, stretching out on the tiles. It was hardly comfortable, the cold seared through her, and her joints hurt where they pressed into the solid roof. But she felt something, for the first time in weeks. She got up, and clambered over the rooftops, until she reached a wall, and scaled her way down. She sighed. Her arms already hurt. It'd been far too long since she had last done this. Then she ran. She ran as fast as she could, and didn't stop.

* * *

In the shadows, a gypsy watched a girl in a torn dress whom he did not recognise. He watched her run as if the demons of Hell itself were after her. Then he turned and went on his way in the opposite direction.


	3. Thief

Stupid stupid stupid. Katerina ran through an alley, towards the dim light at the end, where the moonlight reflected off a patch of ice, before it was blocked out by advancing shadows, and the fiery glare of a torch blinded her.

* * *

Earlier in the day, she had been cursing her luck. She had nearly been caught sneaking bread from a shop, and had had to scale a wall to escape, losing her both her military pursuers, and her meal. She had lost track of the date, but she reckoned it must now be near the end of December. The bitter cold tore through her chest and throat, before leaving through her cracked lips in a cloud of steam. She nestled into her stolen cloak, leaving only her feet uncovered. They were caked with a mixture of mud and blood. Running barefoot was hazardous, and even though she had gained a crust of mud, she could still cut her feet on objects lying around. She did not want to try washing them, as the substance seemed fused to her skin, keeping them oddly insulated, and due to cracks in the mix of blood and earth, she was still able to flex her feet normally. It would thin out as she ran through water, but never enough that she could see the skin underneath.

After leaving the Langnelet household, she had stayed in an area near to the cathedral. If she were to be caught stealing, she knew the swiftest way to Notre Dame, to her final resort - sanctuary. She had not ventured into the cathedral since the week before her wedding, and was reluctant to return. When watching from the high walls of the parvis, she saw Frollo enter frequently. It irritated her that she had to remain hidden, but she knew that soldiers were still looking for her, and could not risk leaving Paris. If she did, she would not be able to steal, and with still no way of understanding most French, she could hardly negotiate her way around. Occasionally she would steal through unexplored alleys at night, to try and make a larger map of Paris in her head. Sadly it never seemed to work. She operated in a small radius, around the Notre Dame de Paris, and rarely left it. However, she had developed certain habits. If she ever heard a troupe playing, she would run to listen and to watch the dancers, occasionally throwing a stolen coin into their outstretched hats. Once or twice she had come across the puppeteer's wagon, and considered staying, but the area was often heavily populated, and she did not want to risk being seen. A few days after her escape from the house, she had burned the scraps of dress and deposited her jewellery in a muck heap, realising that if it was recognised, she would be discovered. Those first few days she spent large amounts of time on rooftops, knowing that she would be safe from guards there. It was uncomfortable, always having to sleep in the deep grooves between houses, but it protected her from most rainfall. After stealing her cloak however, she felt free to move around at street level. It surprised her that she had even survived that first week. More than once she had heard the name Langnelet being whispered, and guessed that her husband and the officials were still unaware of her whereabouts. She never slept in the same area two nights running, and any time she saw a guard, she would hunch up under her cloak, mimicking a gypsy whom she had once seen imitating an elderly citizen.

Katerina had cursed herself over and over for her stupidity. The idea of running away to live in the streets in mid winter was possibly her worst mistake, but she felt that she was better off in the cold than in any intense heat, which had made her faint before, and burned her skin severely. It also made her less visible to others, as a heavy cloak did not look out of place in the freezing weather. She knew she was lucky, so far it had not snowed heavily, despite the intense cold. She scraped by, day by day. She stole enough to feed her, never risking more tha one or two meals a day, but could not know that her body was burning the food up to try and stop her from freezing to the core, leading to intense weight loss. She had never been fleshy as such, but she felt her ribs protruding through the now loose dress, and twice had had to retie the dagger which now rested just above her knee. It was easier to reach for there, although she had not yet had to use it in self defence. The scrapes she had had with the law passed quickly. She knew from years of experience that when caught, if she put up no fight, the guard's grip may slacken for a fraction of a second before they tied her hands. If the moment was properly anticipated, it was possible to slip from their grasp and escape. However, it was safer to run before they had a chance to get their hands on you at all.

That night she had made her biggest mistake. She had fallen asleep sometime a few hours after dusk in the corner of a street, huddled in her cloak, only her feet protruding. She was woken by the sound of breaking glass. Leaping to her feet, she clambered up the wall behind her, and squinted through the darkness. She heard shouts, and as her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw three figures jump from the broken window of a house which she knew to belong to a tax gatherer. One of them dropped a bag, and moonlight glinted on metal objects, as they clanged loudly, rolling on the ground. The figure stooped, but another hauled him onto his feet, and she heard the man's voice;

"Idiot! Laissez-le derrière! Nous devons sortir d'ici!"

They argued, the first man still trying to gather his treasure, before the third, slighter figure snapped an order at them, and they fell silent. Katerina head it at the same time as they did. Footsteps. Clanking armour. Soldiers.

"FUYEZ!"

She didn't know why she did it. Perhaps she felt that she should help them, perhaps it had been the natural authority in his voice, perhaps she had been drawn to them from the moment she first heard them. Either way, as she watched them flee, and saw the light of flaming torches begin to appear around a nearby corner, she jumped down from the wall and ran down another road, a faster route to the end of the way taken by the thieves.

* * *

The thief considered his options. He could hear reinforcements arriving, and knew they were outnumbered.

"Split!" he shouted, and the others did, both down different roads. Had that been the right choice? No time to think about it. He hurtled down a narrow passage, and then stopped momentarily to listen. The sounds of the approaching guards echoed around the walls. That plan was buggered then. No time to wait for the clue of flickering lights. He chose a street, and began to run down it, when a small silhouette dropped into sight from nowhere. He nearly cried out in shock, thinking it to be a guard, but had no time to, as it shoved him in the opposite direction. He was about to protest when he did see the lights of the oncoming soldiers around the corner, and heard the clatter of hooves. Shit. He turned and ran away, and as he did, the figure disappeared from his sight. Whoever it was, they hadn't tried to arrest him or harm him, and he had no time to think about traps. He just kept running, until he decided he may have lost them. He leapt up onto a ledge, and a few seconds later, saw another figure enter the other end of the alley. From the size of it, he knew could not be one of his companions. It was being pursued by a single guard without a torch, who caught hold of the figure's cloak, which was ripped from its neck. As the figure cried out, and as he saw a flurry of long hair, he realised this was a woman. She kept running, and was about to reach him when the thief realised he had become too focused. A light appeared around the corner as two more guards ran into the alley, drawn by the shout. The girl shouted as the glare hit her face, and the thief made a split second decision.

He didn't know why he did it. Perhaps it was to repay the girl's earlier action of stopping him from running straight to his own arrest, perhaps it was because one of the oncoming men laughed, perhaps it was because he could not bear to stay silent, and watch her be captured in order to save himself. Either way, he sprang at the soldier bearing the torch, knocking him second was halfway to drawing his sword, but the thief caught his arm, and thrust his hand upwards, breaking the soldier's nose. As his wounded assailant cried out, the thief turned to take care of the third, but found that the girl already had. He was lying on the ground, and did not appear to be breathing. Surprised, he caught her still raised arm and whispered "the cemetery" into her ear, before picking up his dropped bag again and running, motioning to her to go the other way.

After a while, with no more interruptions from guards, he stopped, and turned his tracks towards the cemetery. He found both his companions waiting for him there, still with their stolen items. Relieved, he asked if they had seen a girl at any time. They looked at him, confused, and denied any knowledge of her. The thief looked at the oncoming dawn. He was unsure whether she had been a gypsy or not. She had not used his name, or shown any familiarity, but she had helped him. Beckoning to the others, he slipped through the entrance to the catacombs, before the first rays of sun caught them.


	4. Executioner

"le cimetière". Surely that was a cemetery? But Katerina didn't know what to do. After the thief had fled, she hadn't run into any others. But she had run into more guards. By dawn she'd lost them, but was exhausted. Worse still, she had left her cloak in the alley. She felt exposed, at risk of being caught every second. Two days had gone past, and now clouds were gathering. Soon it would snow. There had been dustings earlier in the month, but she knew there would be heavier fall to come, and it looked like it was coming soon. She had kept to the shadows, and felt her remaining energy fading, but dared not steal any food. She had searched for cemeteries during twilight the night before, but had not been able to find any nearby, and she now felt a strange pull to the area she was used to, surrounding the Notre Dame. As dusk began to creep over the city, she lay on the top of a wall, listening to the bells ringing out for the evening mass. Then, she heard voices nearby. She jumped in surprise, and looked down, to see three guards, huddled together. Until she heard them mention "le cimetière". She could have sworn she had heard wrong, but another repeated the word, questioningly, and the first confirmed it. They spoke fast, in hushed voices, and then one of them laughed. She had heard that laugh before. She realised who was below, the guards who had cornered her the night before last. Perhaps one of them had heard the thief's words. As they set off, she slipped down from the wall began to follow them.

An hour or so later, she saw where they were heading, a large cemetery in the distance. She dropped back as they moved into open space, and waited a few minutes before continuing. Hiding behind a large gravestone, she saw one of them call to the others, pointing excitedly at a large grave. Two of them removed the top, and then they all clambered inside. Katerina couldn't move now. If she tried entering, they may catch her on their way out. She stood no chance against three armed soldiers. Shivering, she hugged her knees to her chest, and waited.

* * *

What must have been a couple of hours went past, the light faded, and it started to snow. That settled it. As she stood, up, the earth spun before her, and she shook herself. She had to remain conscious. She approached the grave, and saw instead of a tomb, steps. Now or never. Whatever was down there could be her last chance at survival. At the very least she could stay there until the snow stopped. As she crept down the stairs, she tripped, and fell to the bottom. Groaning, she hauled herself up again. She could feel a pain in her left foot. She looked down, and saw that she had cut it again. She stumbled on, bloodshod. The remaining light disappeared, and she felt her way along the wall, until it disappeared, and she nearly fell again. Her hands grasped something, and with a gasp, she realised that it was a skull. But she couldn't stop now. She stumbled on, feeling her way along the bones lining the walls, through several puddles, stinging her wounded foot. She paused for a moment, holding onto the wall of bones, and tried stop her limbs from shaking.

Then a hand seized her arm.

She shouted out, as she felt the bones shift, and strong fingers wrapped around her wrist. A torch flared in the distance, and by the dim light, she saw three men, and felt one behind her as he locked his arms around her. As adrenaline flooded her body, she reacted instinctively, thrusting an elbow into his gut, but despite his obvious discomfort, he did not let go. The other men approached, and she gazed up at them.

"Romani?" one asked, turning her face from side to side. She didn't understand. "qui êtes vous?"

That she could understand, but how to answer? She tried, but she hadn't spoken properly in months, and was badly in need of water. All she could do was choke and cough. They towered over her, each one was huge. From what she could see they had dark skin, and by the clothes they wore, she assumed they were gypsies. They muttered something, and she had a gag forced over her mouth, as they tied her wrists and legs together. She kicked feebly, but was no match for them. She felt herself being slung onto a shoulder, and as she was, she lost consciousness.

* * *

She was woken not long after, by someone lightly slapping her face. Her first reaction was to try and work out where she was. Her ears were being assaulted by shouts, and this gave her the feeling of being hit over the head repeatedly. She was hauled to her feet, and as she stood, she saw bright colours. She blinked a few times, and looked up to see that she was standing next to one of the guards she had followed in, who's face had become bloodied, and was shaking uncontrollably. She didn't blame him. As she looked a little higher, she realised that they were standing next to a set of gallows, and his two companions were strung up. As she watched, she saw the floors break open, and they plummeted for a moment, only to stop a foot short of the ground. One must have broken his neck, because he didn't move again, but it was a minute, perhaps a little less, before the second stopped kicking. The crowd was cheering louder still, and then she was being picked up, and carried onto the gallows herself, as the nooses were retied. The soldier in front attempted to put up a fight, but there was little he could do. He didn't have his legs tied up, and was forced to walk to his own death. She didn't receive that honour. When the rope was put around her neck, and she was lowered to the ground, she almost fell herself, so unstable were her legs. She looked at the gap in the floorboards beneath her feet, soon to widen and let her drop too. She could hear the soldier screaming through his gag, but what was the use in that? All she could think was that if she died then it would all stop. The pain, the loneliness, the useless anger that was so pent up inside of her. She looked up to see the crowd. Instead she saw her executioner. He was standing right in front of her, and she couldn't see his face. He didn't wear black, but purple, and was thinner than the men who had captured her. He was egging the crowd on, making exaggerated movements with his arms, and leaping up and down. The effect was oddly mesmerising. Then she caught sight of a lever to his left, with a painted skull on the top. Charming. The executioner turned, and bowed theatrically to the still screaming guard, and as he straightened up, he caught sight of her, and she saw his eyes widen in shock.

* * *

The executioner had not expected to see two figures standing behind him, least of all an emaciated girl watching him with more composure than the soldier shrieking through his gag. But as he watched there was something in her gaze that hinted at serenity – though she looked sleep-starved. Her eyes slid in and out of focus for a second, before she frowned a little, blinked, and looked away, breaking their eye contact.

He turned to Jehan, an enormous figure who was stood at the edge of the stage, and bounded towards him.

"Who is that?" he asked loudly, gesturing towards the girl, eyes wide and questioning.

"She's a spy. She must have shown the guards where to go, and then followed when they didn't return."

He paused, thinking. It was certainly possible, but "Did she say so?"

"She wouldn't speak, defiant little brat."

"Do you know who she is?"

"No."

"Then how can you tell she's a spy?"

Jehan chewed his tongue for a moment. His large face seemed screwed up with the effort of thinking.

"DON'T STRING HER UP THEN!" the executioner screeched into his face. "I set the rules." He added, in an undertone. With that, he gestured at them to remove her from the stage. This did not please the crowd, or the remaining soldier, whose legs had now been tied, but was screaming louder still. "Ah, I'm sorry everyone, it appears we have gained one too many. Don't worry though, there is still some scum ready and waiting to entertain you!" with that, he hauled the lever down, and watched the coward struggle as he swung, longer than his earlier until he fell limp. Smiling, he gave a bow, and flipped off the gallows, to the bottom of the stairs. The girl was being held up by Jehan and appeared to be close to fainting. He tugged the gag away from her mouth and watched her clack her tongue, attempting to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Her lips were cracked and white, and he guessed she had not had anything to drink for days now. Then he looked into her eyes. They stood out white from her dirty face, and her blue irises pieced him for a moment, until they slid backwards into her skull, and her eyelids folded over them as she blacked out.

"This is useless," said Jehan, "look at her, she'll be dead soon anyway."

"No, she needs food, water and sleep." He snapped back.

Jehan gaped at him "You're offering her hospitality?"

"No, but I prefer to try a human who's at least semi-conscious." When Jehan hesitated, the executioner fixed his eyes upon his. Despite his huge size, he could not hold that gaze. Nodding and apologising, he carried her to a corner, and set her down on a blanket. As he did, the executioner noticed something. He walked forward, and pulled her skirt above her knee, revealing a dagger in a sheath, the belt tied around her leg a few times to secure it. He removed the weapon, as well as a long necklace tied to her ankle, before he noticed her feet. They were black with blood, apart from a small gash at the back of her left heel, still red and bleeding a little. Her skin was filthy and flushed with bruises, but she appeared very pale. A young girl arrived with a bowl of water, which she handed to him, before running off again. He splashed some on the unconscious girl's face, and she stirred feebly. He turned to Jehan and handed him the water.

"Make her drink all of this. And be sure she eats something. Find me when she's awake."

He watched the huge man holding the girl's head up as he spooned water into her mouth. She choked a little, before swallowing it down. He turned away. There was work to do, and he could not let his thoughts linger on this girl with blue eyes and bloodied feet.


	5. King

**Authors note: **thanks for feedback so far guys. Sorry, made a mistake uploading, then my internet cut off. Okay, the real Chapter 5 for you, hope you like it! Inspired/ripped off from the trial of Pierre Gringoire.

* * *

Katerina stirred. The dim recesses of her mind began to recall her from her sleep. Was she dead? She could not think, but then a burst of agony shot through her, as the pain retuned. Her whole body ached, and there was a sharp pain in the back of her head. Probably not dead then. She did not feel cold though, in fact, she seemed to be lying on a stone floor, with a blanket covering her. There was no wind, snow, rain, or frost in her hair. She opened her eyes a fraction. She saw a huge stone hall, strewn with colourful banners and sheets. In her line of sight, she saw gallows, and the events of the previous night began to flood her mind. But they seemed shrouded in shadow, clouded from the state of stupor she had been in.

She remembered entering the tomb, seeing steps, the light fading as she stumbled through the passage, bones lining the walls. She remembered arms locked around her, holding her as she was carried through the dark. Then waking to see the gallows, and a blood-stained guard shaking as he watched his companions swing. Being carried up herself, feeling the rope around her neck, and not caring. And his face. The executioner. His cruel delight at the soldier's screams, and his shock upon seeing her. She had been released, put into the arms of a huge man, and she had looked into the executioner's face. His dark eyes had searched hers, and then, nothing. Again she had been woken, but this was an event half-remembered, of water spilled into her mouth, and the pain of swallowing dry bread for the first time in days. And then sleep again.

She felt conscious of the fact that she was being watched. She looked up, to see the huge, muscled man staring down at her. Was he there as a guard? Was she still a prisoner? Her hands and legs were no longer bound, but as she sat up, she felt the lack of pressure usually exerted by her dagger. So they had disarmed her. Her ankle also felt bare, and she realised the necklace was no longer tied there. She had no time to dwell on this however, as the man bent down and lifted her onto her feet. He held her hands firmly behind her back, and shoved her forward. Confused, she walked as he guided, still blinking in the torchlight which illuminated the room. She realised that she had no way of knowing what time it was. She also saw that she was surrounded by gypsies, many of whom stopped to watch her as she was guided onwards. So she had found their hide-away. Or rather, she had been sent there. After all, it was the thief who had whispered the words "le cimetière" to her. He had meant for her to come here.

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind, and looked up again to see what they approached. A fire blazed in the centre of a jumble of tables, where groups of gypsies sat or stood, shouting, brawling, eating and drinking. And in front of the fire, she saw a silhouette of a man, seated on a barrel. They walked ever closer, and jeers began to fill the air, and then the fire sparked for a moment, and she saw his face. The executioner's face. But as she was forced in front of him, and the light drew upon him so that she saw him clearly, he held up his hands, and the crowd stopped their shouting. Not just an executioner. The way they looked at him, expectantly, almost devotedly. And he had such presence as he sat there, that she understood. He sat on no barrel, he sat on a throne. He was their leader. Their chief. Their King.

He was smiling broadly; but though his eyes searched her face, she saw not kindness, but appraisal.

"Comment t'appelles-tu?" The king asked.

_What is your name?_ – So she was on trial? She croaked and swallowed before she replied,

"Katerina," then paused, unsure of what to state as her last name.

The king raised an eyebrow, noticing her hesitation, but that smile still played across his face.

"Qui êtes vous?

_Who are you? -_ She hesitated again. "Je.. je l'ai dit.."

"Non_,_" he interrupted, "pas votre nom. _Qui_ vous êtes?"

_No, not your name. __Who__ are you? -_ she could not answer that question. Certainly not in French. His eyes narrowed a little, and the smile faded. He paused for a moment, and settled on another question;

"Quel est votre nom complet?"

_What is your full name? -_ "Katerina... Rutherford." The crowd began to mutter amongst themselves, until their king made a swift sign, and they fell quiet again, watching eagerly.

"Connaissez-vous le français?"

_Do you understand French? -_ he must have noticed her accent, and now she had supplied a surname which was certainly not French. She searched her mind for the right phrase,

"à peine"

_Barely_. That much was certainly true. The king got up from his throne, and crossed the short distance between them, until he stood perhaps half a foot from her. Katerina felt herself shrink a little. He was tall, and appeared more than a little formidable. He tilted his head, his eyes still searching, still calculating, and then he spoke quietly, to her and her alone.

"English?"

The shock of being spoken to in English jolted through her.

"Yes."

Those assembled crowed and shouted, and heard the enormous, muscled man who stood closer, as he cried out.

"Fous le camps et morte!"

"Va te faire foutre, enculé!" she shot back automatically, to all round surprise. Living in the streets, one of the few things she had picked up had been the various insults so freely tossed around at gutter level.

A shout from their king silenced them again. He turned back to her, and she saw not anger, but amusement on his face.

"I have some English. Tell me, are you a spy?"

She frowned, feeling insulted by this question "Spy? Who would I spy for?"

"Any official who wants rid of us. Judge Claude Frollo perhaps?"

The mention of that name drew shouts from the crowd and a growl from the back of Katerina's throat.

"Perhaps not." The King smiled again, briefly, but then drew closer, still watching her, not blinking. His dark eyes appeared to search deep into the corners of her soul, and it was a difficult gaze to hold. "How did you find this place?"

She hesitated again. How to explain? "There was a man... a... a thief. I turned him away from the path of soldiers. He then helped me when I was ambushed by more, the very ones you just hanged. I think they must have heard him, as he directed me here. He said..." she trailed off, seeing the king's expression falter for a second, as he looked her up and down quickly. A small smile grew on his face, and it appeared more genuine than it had done before. Slowly, he leaned very close and whispered into her ear,

"Le cimetière."

She drew back in shock, stepping into the man who still held her arms. That voice. As the fire sparked, she saw again the silhouette of the lean figure she had looked upon in moonlight only a few days ago. The crowd began to mutter amongst themselves again.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked. She shook her head. "You have entered the Court of Miracles!" he shouted, gesturing around him. "you see these men? The beggars amongst them" and now he affected a hoarse, croaking voice, "enter this court, and their ailments disappear. Poof!" he laughed, gesturing to the crowd around him, removing his hoarseness. "The blind see, the lame walk, the diseased are cured!" He laughed again, and the court laughed with him, knowing what he must be telling her. He continued, growing ever more dramatic and excitable, in a voice which recalled yet another figure from her memory, "It is the home of the Truands, the Argotiers! A man may stay here if he is a capon, a franc-mitou, a rifodé, one of the cagoux, or the archisuppôts. Thieves, beggars, vagrants, receivers of stolen goods and those who live their lives in hiding" he listed them wildly. "And," he lowered his voice, looking into her eyes again, "do you know who I am?"

She considered, all the various characters who she suspected him to be, and then said "A gypsy, a thief, an executioner, and... a performer, I believe. And a King amongst your Truands, a man whom has saved my life more than once now. But," she considered a moment, "this inquisition makes me believe that you may not be finished with me yet."

The man standing in front of her smiled. "No. You are right, for royalty surrounds you. The Duke of Egypt and Bohemia, the Emperor of Galilee, and as you suggest, the King of Tunis," he drew himself up tall, "are all present in this court. But, as you speak, I am not finished. We treat those from above the ground as they treat us. I must obey the gypsy law, which demands that if you are to live," he paused a moment, looking away briefly, "you must be a true Argotier. You must pass a test."

Katerina shut her eyes. She had expected no less. She opened them as again and looked around. The court appeared to understand what was happening. Undoubtedly they had seen inquests like this before.

The King of the Truands stepped back, and addressed her for loudly. "Are you a Truand at heart?"

"I am."

"Are you a thief, a beggar, a vagrant, a receiver of stolen goods or one who must hide from the world?"

"I am."

"Which?" he pressed her.

"A thief." She paused. "And I hide."

"Who from?"

She paused, but could not bring herself to tell the whole truth."The law." She said, simply.

He considered her, and she knew he didn't full believe her. But then he turned to the crowd, and made a sign. A group of Truands hurried forward, and in a flash they had constructed a portable gallows. Hanging from the rope was a mannequin, covered with hundreds of tiny bells, which rang out as it swang, until the mannequin fell completely still. A rickety, three-legged stool was then placed underneath.

"You see this mannequin? It has a pocket. In the pocket is a purse. You must take the purse, without a single bell ringing. And believe me, we will be listening."

Katerina considered. "And if a bell rings?" she asked.

"You hang." Said the King, without a second's hesitation.

"If a bell rings for another reason than my touching it?"

"You hang" he repeated, with a sly smile.

Katerina considered, then nodded, and felt her arms released.

* * *

The King stood back and watched the girl. He repressed his want for her to succeed. He must stay true to the code.

"_Climb onto the stool._" He told her. She did so, still watching him, and he saw her knees shake a little. He realised she was still weak, but there was no delaying this. The stool wobbled a little, and she balanced herself again.

"_Lift up your right leg."_ Again she did as he said, a look of defiance on her face. He realised that her torn dress revealed more than was considered appropriate, and the court began to catcall.

"Quiet!" he commanded them, in French.

"_Twist it around your left, and stand on your toes._" As she twisted, she turned away slightly, and as she raised herself onto the toes of her left foot, he saw the wound on her heel split open again, and she gave a sharp intake of breath at the pain.

"_Now reach up, and take the purse. Do not let a single bell ring._" The crowd fell silent. They watched as she lifted her arm and slowly slid it into the pocket of the mannequin. As she drew out the purse, the court held its breath, listening for the slightest clink of metal. None came. Quickly, before she had a chance to brush any of the bells, she threw her arm behind her, which unbalanced her, and she crashed to the ground. But the King knew she had fallen on purpose as it made certain she would not knock the mannequin. She sat up, and turned her gaze to him, as she waited for his judgement.

Her success drew a mixture of responses from the crowd. Some groaned, as they had been hoping for some entertainment, and others cheered, admiring this feat of skill.

"I hereby proclaim that you, Katerina Rutherford are now a true subject of Argot!" he cried out to the crowd, unable to hide his delight. She appeared to understand him, and gave a faint smile, still not removing her gaze.

Jehan came forward, and whispered in his ear. The King of Truands swung around, "I know the code." he snapped.

"Katerina," he called out. The girl came forward, and stood before him. "a_ final law remains. Now that you are a Truand, you must be subjected to eight days of beating._" He saw repugnance cloud her gaunt face. Unsurprising. "_Rather a beating than a hanging. However, as you are already in an ill state, I reduce the sentence to an hour's beating a day, for eight days_" Oddly, she seemed perhaps more concerned by this. He then repeated this in French for the crowd to hear. Again, it fell to mixed reactions. Many saw how thin and bruised the girl was already, and agreed with this, others disliked the fact that her sentence was reduced. He supposed they had been hoping to gain entertainment from her beating.

"_One condition._" He added. "_You must_ _tell me who you hide from._"

The girl shut her eyes, and frowned, clearly thinking through her options.

"_Tell your King the truth_." At this, she opened her eyes, took a breath, and with a look of despondency, stated;

"_In the eyes of the law, my true name is Katerina __Langnelet._"

And upon hearing that name, the Court of Miracles descended into howls of fury and outrage.


	6. Judge

Katerina did not take her eyes of the King of Truands. The two stood motionless amongst the tumult of the court.

She watched him, trying to read his expression. Was it anger? Disappointment? Pity? She could not tell. If only he would comprehend that she had meant no harm.

As the crowd argued with each other, more than a few hurling insults and howling at their King, she felt a bitter emotion she could not comprehend swell inside her. One woman at the end of a table was crying. Several of them looked as though they would hurt her, and others could not even bear to look at her. She did not think that Langnelet would be a name known in this place. He was not as high ranking as others, and despite his hatred of them, he had no say in the persecution of gypsies.

* * *

He watched her, studying her face. Her eyes implored him to understand, and her jaw was locked with emotion, as she swallowed. He could not believe that she had tricked him; she had given her name, but she had not given it willingly. He checked himself as several of the Truands implored him for justice.

"Silence!" he called, and it fell, but they continued to look at him in expectation. "Philippe!" the man who had insulted Katerina, and had received the same response from her, stepped forward. He was looking at the girl in disgust. "You speak English, yes?"

"Some. Regrettably." He replied, distaste evident in his tone.

Why had he not thought of this before? "I want to you interpret for the others."

"Why can't you?"

The King of Truands turned and fixed Philippe with a look which had made battle-scarred soldiers tremble. Philippe had issues with authority. "I will need to concentrate. And translate properly, no twisting of her words. I will hear if you do. If you are going to protest to this girl's presence, then I must act as judge in this court." He addressed this last comment to the whole court, before turning back to Katerina, and telling her English.

"_Why did you not tell us that you were Madame __Guillaume Langnelet_?" he asked her, and behind him, Philippe relayed his speech to the court in French.

"_I gave up that name! It is no longer a part of me_" Katerina retorted, clearly angered.

"W_here does the name Rutherford come from?"_

"I_n the eyes of the law of Paris, it is my maiden name_."

"_And in your eyes?_"

"_My name_." She said, without hesitation.

A thought struck the judge.

"_Do you understand why your... married name causes this reaction from the court?_"

"_No_." Upon hearing her response, the court muttered amongst themselves.

* * *

Katerina's judge continued. "Your husband-"

The mention of Langnelet in this way – as her husband, drew a growl from the back of her throat, interrupting her judge's speech. He paused, and she knew he understood; Langnelet meant nothing to her any more.

"Well then. Did you know Langnelet is a... friend of Frollo's?"

"Yes."

"Have you met him before?"

She paused. "Yes." Again low voices filled the hall.

"Three times, I believe."

"So you met the gaunt, yellow faced demon."

"No." She corrected him and he raised an eyebrow questioningly. "I wouldn't say he was yellow faced." She smiled. "I'd call it grey." As her words were relayed, she heard snickers from a few of the court, and her judge gave a short bark of laughter, before straightening his face again and continuing;

"After you... disappeared, Langnelet went to him, and he began questioning Truands, believing you to have been kidnapped. The name of Katerina Langnelet filled the streets for weeks, and Frollo still continues to use your name as warrant for the arrest and torture of gypsies. All in the name of finding you."

Her mouth fell open in shock, and for the first time in years she felt her eyes well up with tears, because of a different kind of pain, a guilty pain. To have caused so much devastation with her single act of defiance, it was almost too much to bear.

* * *

The judge recognised her anguish, and understood. She could not have known; the girl barely spoke French. He turned away from her, to the waiting Truands.

"She had no knowledge of this. She cannot be punished for hiding her name."

Some of the Argotiers, seeing for themselves that this was true, nodded in agreement. But Jehan's voice stood out amongst the shouts from the rest;

"But it's because of her that we are persecuted!"

"Frollo uses any excuse to continue with his purge, as you well know. When she left her husband she had no way of knowing the consequences."

A more of the Truands recognised this at last, as they voiced their agreement. Yet still Jehan pushed on;

"Someone must be punished!!"

Before he had a chance to reply, Elizabeth Trouvain, a fiery girl who so enjoyed a hanging that the several were surprised to see her take the side of the accused, turned to Jehan

"Frollo will be punished! This girl has done nothing wrong! She deserted Langnelet, and rejected the life of the gentry, choosing to live on the streets instead, and you wish to have her executed for this?"

The judge smiled, seeing the majority of the court backing her. But Jehan, stubborn to the end, and still with a few supporters, cried out

"But, she's English, how can you support her"

At last. This was what he had been waiting for.

"Jehan, what has that to do with anything? Unless of course you consider yourself French?"

Jehan looked at the judge in fury, his father was French, but he had been killed in the wars. After his mother's death Jehan had fled to the Truands. And _he_ had failed to retrieve the mannequin's purse. He was only saved by a woman who had agreed to marry him for four years. He shook his head, slowly, hatred clear in his face.

"No? Than that settles it. The Truands may live in Paris, but we are not French." This brought a cry of agreement from the court. "We did not fight in the wars; we have no care about this girl's bloodline; She is one of us!" He shouted for all the court to hear, and now they cheered in agreement, only a couple of dozen remaining sullen and refusing to join in with their acceptance.

He turned to the girl who stood confused in the commotion.

"_You will not be punished for this. You are not to blame._" He told her, grinning madly.

Then Robert Pannier, a more moderate gypsy less vengeful than others, sadly chose this moment to prove his intelligence by speaking up.

"But surely, if she is found to be connected to us, then the persecution will worsen. What if she was recognised?"

The judge sighed. He had considered this, but,

"Do you think she looks anything like the wife of Guillaume Langnelet? I don't doubt that more than one of you has seen her before, and nobody here recognised her. Not even you Robert, and you have a memory for faces."

"You cannot doubt that Frollo would recognise her at least. He does not forget." Robert replied

Now the rest of the court became worried at this idea.

I have a suggestion," he continued, "Katerina must stay in the catacombs. She cannot go above the ground until we can know that she will not be recognised"

The judge considered. His proposal made sense, though he was reluctant to imprison the girl. But it would not be forever, he told himself, only for a short while.

He looked at her. It was the best plan, protecting both her and the Truands. And so he sentenced her;

"_We cannot risk you being recognised in Paris. You would be executed yourself, for treason, adultery, anything Frollo could think of. Then he would persecute us further, probably for witchcraft. Do you understand?_" she nodded, but was clearly concerned by this. "_You must remain in the..." _he paused, not knowing the right word. He gestured around area, and she appeared to follow him. "_You cannot enter Paris until we can be certain you will not be recognised._" She did not reply to this, but he knew that it was a harsh sentence, as she now looked nothing like the girl who once walked alongside Langnelet. She probably held back out of gratitude, knowing she had been spared death, but again he saw the discontent in her face. It did not matter, she had no more say in her sentence.

"_For the first eight days here, you may not leave the Court of Miracles. After that, you can stay with another of the Truands._"

She looked up at him. "_Will you tell me your name?_"

He was surprised, and a little offended. He had thought that everyone knew his name. But then, he supposed, she didn't know anyone. His smiled broadly.

"_I will. But only after the eighth day._"

She gave a hint of a smile in return, and with that, he gave a sign and the court returned to their usual chaos, with Elizabeth Trouvain at the head of a crowd that grouped around Katerina.


	7. Torturer

**AN**: OK, new chapter! I've got a bit obsessed with writing this fanfic, might take a break soon, and get some work done too.I thought this might be too violent for a T, so I've bumped up the rating. I'd like to add that these characters do not share my views on corporal punishment, if you're wondering. please R/R, also, if anyone can think of a better description send me a message.

Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Very few of the Truands spoke any English, yet Katerina somehow found it far easier to interact with them than the Parisian girls. There was more to them in the way they exaggerated their expressions, the way that they would gesture wildly when talking to her. Whether she could understand them or not, she understood their meaning. At a point where she felt she could not take any more questions, she returned to the area outside of the court she had slept in before her trial, and curled up into the blanket.

What must have been the next day, she woke up, and was unsure of what to do, until the girl she now knew to be called Elizabeth walked into view, and dropped down next to her. She had spent large amounts of the previous evening with her, but there had been a group of them, so Katerina hadn't had a chance to look at her properly, as she had been standing out of the light of the fire. But now she was illuminated by the torchlight. She looked a little older than Katerina, but there was such youth in her face that she could not tell her age. She wore a large amulet of metal and semi-precious stones. Long curls tumbled past her shoulders, and she had full lips which she had painted red. The effect against her tanned skin was striking, but in a very pleasing way. Elizabeth reached out a hand, so fast that she shrunk back a little, and stroked her hair lightly. Katerina grimaced, knowing that it was filthy, and so matted that it stuck up a few inches, but the girl only laughed at this, and pulled her to her feet. She ran along with her, a mischievous look in her eye, as they rounded a corner in the tunnel, and reached the court. After recovering her strength, Katerina was now able to notice more than the Argotiers. The tables were less cluttered, and there were dogs near the entrance which tore at bones and leftover scraps. They had paved the area with stone, but covered with more mud and debris than straw. The flames from the fire licked the air lower than earlier, as the fuel was half-charred, yet the air was stifling and half obstructed by smoke. The barrel where the King had sat now stood empty.

They sat at a table and were joined by an old woman, with a large bowl of potage. She could only speak a little French, muttering in a tongue Katerina didn't recognise. A fine trio they made. But they were able to communicate well enough. After starving for so long, her stomach had shrunk, and so she did not eat, but the others gulped down their food. Then a shadow fell onto her face. She looked up, and saw the man who had continually cried out for her death the previous night.

"So, my new sister," he spoke to her in English and with spite. The other women watched him with disgust, but she felt that she could not ask for them to accept her after the suffering she had brought upon them. At the same time however, she felt nothing amiable towards him, as he leant forward, his voice was low and venomous. "I hope for this evening to come swiftly. I will enjoy it." with that, he strode away. From this, she assumed that her torture was to take place later in the day. She looked at Elizabeth and the old woman. She wanted to confirm it, but she didn't know how to ask. She tried to communicate by beating on the table, and after a while, they appeared to understand her. Elizabeth spoke slowly to the old woman, calling her Moude. She nodded and pointed outside the court. Moude then revealed something; she spoke hesitantly,

"You are hurt as they return."

Katerina didn't understand, and Moude repeated the statement, pointing first to Katerina, and then to the barrel where the kind had sat. She nodded, thinking she had caught the meaning of those words. She would be beaten when the king descended from the city, back to the catacombs. But what would she do until then? She spent the day following Elizabeth, who helped some of the other women who had remained that day, with washing and cooking. When she attempted to ask why they had remained underground, Elizabeth thought for a moment, and then held onto her stomach, pulling a pained expression. That much she certainly understood, and it explained why so many of the women would snap at each other that day. The others who remained were either pregnant or young children. They practiced at thieving, often earning a smack from their mothers, not when they successfully pocketed the objects, but when they were caught. As time drew on, she noticed more of the women watching her carefully. Perhaps they expected her to be worried, and looking for an escape. She was nervous, but she could not walk away from this. As trails of the Truands began to return, she could feel the atmosphere thickening. Eventually Elizabeth led her back to the area around the gibbet; she saw a set of stocks, and various torture implements in a basket lying nearby. There was a crowd behind, watching hesitantly. She felt nerves kicking in. How stupid. Suddenly the crowd parted as the King leapt through. He looked excitable, but not happy as such. She noticed him avoid her eyes, as he turned to the crowd and called to them. Coward. There were mixed responses, some, including Elizabeth shouted back, but others remained silent, just watching. Then he turned, and addressed her quietly, drawing a dagger;

"I need to expose your back. Turn around_._"

* * *

The girl did as he said, not protesting as he carefully sliced open the back of her dress to her waist, a task made simple as it hung about her figure loosely. She held onto her arms though, as a few catcalls caught the air. He knew that there were Truands who still thought she should be subjected to the eight days of beating that others had been before her. He hoped that the sight of her back may change their minds. He could see her ribs and spine sticking out, a condition which was common amongst street-dwellers, but not normally so acute. Bruises were spread across her back, as well as a few scars. Well those would soon increase. The first man to step forward was Jehan. He was holding a long wooden staff.

The King directed her to a block, which she propped herself up on. He parted the back of her dress further, exposing more of her skin. He stood back as Jehan walked up towards her, swinging the club, and he turned over an hourglass which would time a quarter of an hour.

Jehan struck the first blow. Katerina muffled her cry. He was impressed, only a few managed to do so, and it was a show of her endurance that she did not begin to sob. As the crowd cheered either her or Jehan, she breathed in and out heavily as Jehan paused. He knew not to let each blow fade into the next.

He struck again, and this time the blow broke the skin as it caught her spine. Again she cried out, but stifled it fast. Again and again the staff fell onto her, and slowly her cries grew quieter, and turned into groans. Once the sand in the hourglass ran out, Jehan stopped and was changed for another similarly built man, Estienne. Another fifteen minutes continued. The crowd remained, now calling in praise of Katerina. They would stay for the first hour, but over the next days, the numbers would dwindle.

The time ran out, and Jehan walked up again, taking up the club again. As he swung it upwards with force, everyone saw what would happen, and cried out as the staff fell too fast. The cries distracted him, and the club caught Katerina's arm, which broke with a crack, and now she screamed. Several leap forward and restrained him, and the King of Truands himself ran to the girl now clutching her arm. Her eyes were huge and frantic. He held her arm carefully, examining it. The bone was broken at an angle, and before she had a chance to pull away, he reset it with another loud crack. Again she screamed, and he locked his arms around her and held on tightly, rocking her back and forth until she had stopped hyperventilating. He then placed her back against the block, and took up the staff himself. He may not have the brute strength of Jehan, but he did not need it. He could cause pain without breaking bones, and he would.

* * *

Katerina braced herself again. So now this man was to become her torturer. Now each of the hits seemed dull compared to the pain spreading across her arm. After the next fifteen minutes, her torturer changed over for the last time that day. In the pause in between each blow, she dredged up the strength to speak through gritted teeth.

"Why?"

He paused, waiting for the next blow, and then said.

"Originally, to toughen you up."

He paused again, as another strike fell.

"But to be a Truand! It is worth the pain."

Another strike.

She answered him again through gritted teeth."And you know this?"

Another strike.

"I was born a Truand."

Another strike.

"Lucky you."

Another strike.

She continued; "Do you enjoy this?"

Another strike.

"When it is deserved."

Another strike.

"That was not my question."

Another strike.

Another strike.

Another strike.

"You can't decide."

Another strike.

"So, you enjoy the violence."

Another strike.

"Perhaps not the pain caused."

Another strike.

"But the beauty of it."

* * *

She had said it perfectly. There was little beauty in this, her back lacerated by the fierceness of the blows. Some of them from him. But something about it, the whistle of the club as it fell, the responding cry of the victim, there was a certain harmony in it. He did not enjoy it as such. But he felt that he could not dislike it. Of course, if it had been Frollo, Langnelet, even Jehan in her place, he could not deny that he would relish in it. But anyone would.

"_Sadist._"

Another strike.

"_No._"

Another strike.

"_If you say so._"

The crowd watched this grotesque exchange continue until finally, the hour was up. Katerina's back was bathed and her dress pinned together again. She shook as she walked away, and barely ate that night, and fell asleep cradling her arm, trying not to move and split her wounds open further.

And so the days went on. By the third, she could not stand up on her own, and each day grew worse as wounds reopened.

She would ask questions about the life of a Truand – he refused to answer any about himself. in return for this, she did the same. Less and less people came to watch, but a small crowd, including Elizabeth Trouvain, were always present to see the bizarre spectacle. He would alternate with Estienne, and whenever he was resting, they would continue to talk, each sentence punctuated by a muffled howl of pain as the staff fell again. It seemed to him a horrific parody of courtship. Despite knowing very little about her, he was able to gauge aspects, such as her dark humour and respectable intelligence. He had met wiser girls, but she was not stupid, and did not fall easily into his lies.

Finally the eighth day came. He took up the staff for the final quarter of the hour. By now her back was littered with wounds, but there was certainly enough skin left to see the bruises blooming across her. She would be scarred, but not as deeply as those who were whipped. She was lucky not to have broken any more bones, or have a lung punctured. It had happened before. After he struck the final blow, he threw down the club and pulled her upwards, causing her to wince. Elizabeth ran forward and they held her up, as the crowd, which now consisted of most of the Truands, cheered, shouted and clapped for the iron endurance of their new sister.

As they began to move away, to celebrate, she would not let herself be dragged away. She held onto his arm, as her dress was pinned back together for the last time.

"_Tomorrow you begin your new life._" He told her, and began to turn to leave with the crowd.

"_Wait,_" she said, catching his shoulder. "_You've forgotten. Tell me your name._"

He laughed raucously, drawing the attention of passing gypsies.

"_I should have known you would remember._" He leant down so that his face was level with hers. "_My name is Clopin Trouillefou._" And with that, he bounded away, leaving her surrounded again by a group of cheering Truands.


	8. Trouillefou

**AN**: Okay, so I couldn't go 1 day without continuing. Warning: this chapter contains a Disney-Clopin quote. Sorry, it fitted so well. And if you're wondering, there is a real story about the Wolves of Paris, look it up. Hope you like.

* * *

Later, after eating with the others, Katerina was led away by two women. Elizabeth looked to follow, but was tapped on the shoulder by Jehan. She waved as she walked away. Perhaps she was returning to work. Whatever it was she did. One of the girls, La Esmeralda, took Katerina's arm.

The Truands often acted oddly around her, almost with a sense of reverence. She was incredibly beautiful, and was one of the gypsies whom Katerina could remember from the streets, as a dancer. Away from the streets, where she appeared to cast a spell over all who watched her dancing, she was sweet natured and unassuming, but not naive. She kept a poniard concealed in a band on her knee, which she occasionally pulled out to eat with, but had undoubtedly used for other purposes. They seemed to be of a similar age, but Katerina felt insignificant compared to this girl who was a goddess amongst Truands. The other woman she knew nothing about, except for her name, Marguerite. She was heavy, but carried the weight well. They reached a small area, which was dimly lit. She saw a flowing stream of water. Oh good, she thought dejectedly, bath time. Reluctantly, she changed into the long shift they had handed her. She climbed into the freezing water. She was handed a brush, and began to scrub at her arms and legs. Eventually, she assumed she was clean enough and got out, shivering violently. Marguerite handed her a blanket, and then, with no warning, set to work on her hair. Katerina swore loudly, as the comb tore through the knotted mass. Hearing a laugh, she looked up to see Clopin Trouillefou leaning against the entrance.

"Oi!" she shouted, gathering her blanket closer. However, neither of the others protested.

"You realise," he said, "that's not an expression I've heard amongst the gentry."

"And you realise," she replied, grimacing as the comb was dragged though her hair again, "that you said you only had some English, yet you understand everything I say."

He ignored this, and moved further into the room.

* * *

The girl's feet were still black with blood. The water leaked in by the Seine had barely made an impact on them.

"_Clean_ _those._" He said, throwing her a scrubbing brush. She grimaced again, and began to clean at the blood-crust. Marguerite also took one, and as she scoured, the crust began to rip away from Katerina's feet, and she screamed.

"_Can't you beat me instead?_" it took over twenty minutes to clean the blood away entirely. They were raw and red underneath, and the skin on her soles was tough, but she did not have the bunions usually present in higher class girls. She stood up, wincing on her feet, and Esmeralda brought out clothes for her, gesturing for Clopin to turn his back. Very well. After a while, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and the four of them walked back to the court, where the light was better to see by. He looked her up and down. She stood in front of them, a questioning look on her face. Her hair was still wet and skin a little red from the scrubbing. She wore some of Esmeralda's clothes, which were still a little large, but did not make her look so skeletal as the stolen dress had. From his pockets, he drew out the necklace and dagger they had taken from her. Surprised, she grabbed them, tying the belt around her waist and the necklace around her ankle. Esmeralda and Marguerite seemed very happy with their efforts, but now there was a final task.

He produced from his pocket a long needle, and an earring.

"Hold her still."

"_What?_" her expression was stony as the girls held her steady, and turned her head to one side, cooing softly that it would be over soon.

"_I forgot to mention this, didn't I?_" he said with a grin. She rolled her eyes.

"_Whatever makes you happy. Sire."_ He laughed, and before she moved again, pierced the lobe of her left ear. After all she had been through, he was not surprised when she made no sound, only screwing her eyes shut as the needle punctured her pale skin. He swiftly removed it, and placed an earring in its place.

"_Is that all?_" she asked, as the others let her go,"_Or do I now get the other arm broken?_"

"_Careful,_" he smiled, "_that almost sounded disrespectful. No. We are finished. And Elizabeth is offering to let you stay with her._" He turned to Marguerite. "Take her to Elizabeth Trouvain's house." he said, before looking at Katerina one last time, "_Goodnight._"

* * *

As she was led away again by Marguerite, Esmeralda parroted Clopin's final word with a smile.

"Goodnight."

Katerina smiled.

"À bientôt."

As La Esmeralda's laughter echoed through the tunnels, Marguerite led her to a huge area where houses had been built into the walls. They were lower than the Parisian houses, as they stopped where they met the ceiling, but the ceiling here was higher, like the one in the area where the gibbet stood. Again she saw coloured banners were strewn across the roof of the area.

Marguerite stopped outside a small house, and jabbed her finger at the door, before leaving her with the torch, and walking away. Katerina protested, but the woman did not listen. Annoyed, she turned to the door, and tried it. Locked. Excellent. She looked up the face of the house. One of the top windows looked like it was unlocked. She scrambled onto some barrels next to the door, then onto the door frame. She could just reach the bottom of the window, and stretched her fingers up to the window frame. By wriggling them back and forth, she was able to prise the window out enough to knock it open. She braced herself, fixing the torch between her ankles, then jumped, grabbed hold of the bottom of the ledge and hauled herself up. She perched on the ledge, before reaching back and taking the torch from her ankles. She climbed into the room, and looked around. It was small and most of it was taken up by a bed and small table. There were shelves fixed to it, which were filled with ornaments. She snuck out of the room, the floorboards creaking as she walked over them, and went down a flight of narrow stairs, into a cramped kitchen area. She thrust the torch into the fireplace, and sat down at a table. She was not in the room for long before the door opened, making her jump.

Elizabeth seemed pleased that she had managed to get into the house, and showed her upstairs to another room, where she wished her goodnight, leaving her with a candle. The room was like Elizabeth's with a low ceiling, bed and ramshackle shelf fixed to one wall, although it was slightly smaller. A small pockmarked mirror sat on the shelf, which she picked up, and saw her face for the first time in months. She was shocked by the face she saw staring back. Her eyes had sunken back into their sockets, her cheekbones were more prominent. However, she knew that her appearance must have improved over the past eight days, when she had been able to sleep and eat, and now that she was clean.

She blew out the candle and lay on the bed, fiddling with her necklace, and smiling to herself. It had been a long time since she had slept in a bed. Before she drifted to sleep, her last thoughts were of Clopin Trouillefou.

She could not make him out. He insisted on being over dramatic, never revealing emotions. He was violent, and almost cruel at times, but then would switch to being light-hearted again in the blink of an eye. And the man was a puppeteer? A thief too, but that should be enough, so why did he entertain the children of Paris. He was King of the Truands, and yet he spoke English near fluently. He infuriated her, and was willing to beat her within an inch of her life, but he was entertaining, and appeared to understand and like her. But perhaps he appeared to like everyone who he wanted on his side. She may know his name at last, but she was beginning to doubt that any of the gypsies knew any more about him than she did.

* * *

The next day Katerina woke up to Elizabeth knocking on the door. She laughed, understanding that there was no dawn to wake her, but the torches lining the walls outside had been lit now.

Over the next few weeks, she was integrated into the Truands' world. Early each morning most would leave for the upper layers, in groups of varying sizes. She had learned during her beatings that there was more than one exit from the catacombs, but of course, they were not revealed to her. she would not need to know them. Truands only took the entrance from the graveyard if they thought they were being followed, as there were always Truand guards in disguise lining the walls, ready to ambush unwanted guests. The youngest children would be taken up to Paris, as beggars would receive more money if they had small children with them. The old and injured were the same. All that was left were children and some young women. It was not boring or lifeless, as her months in Paris had been, but she did not always enjoy it, spending the daytime surrounded by irritable women, and not being able to see the sun or smell fresh air, the air always thick with the heat cast by the fires.

One of her favourite habits was to watch Clopin tell stories to the young children. His face became so animated when he did so. She barely understood at first, but as he acted out the scenes, she got the meaning. One night, he was talking about the Notre Dame de Paris, and began growling and jumping on all fours, to the children's' delight. But she did not understand went through several different words, attempting to translate his actions. Each time, she said "dog" or "fox" and he would shake his head, losing patience. The suggestion of "cat" gained her a hit on the head, which resounded with a loud *THWACK*. He paused, and then growled loudly, baring his teeth. "Wolf?" she suggested hesitantly, rubbing her head. He cheered, and then pressed a finger to his lips, preparing to continue with the story. "WOLVES!" she cried out, excited now.

"DON'T INTERRUPT ME!" Clopin shouted into her face, before laughing at her stunned expression. From then on, she made sure she stayed silent during the stories.

She began to pick up French quite fast, and in return, some of the others learned English phrases. By her fifth week, she was able to converse well enough with most of the Truands. One night she tripped up in the Court of Miracles, and automatically swore in French, rather than English. She had rolled over to see Clopin sitting on his throne or a barrel, laughing in approval. She and Elizabeth grew fairly close, and that evening, as they were sat together in the court and she asked Elizabeth how old she was. Clopin heard them in passing, and threw himself onto the bench next to her.

"_Oh no, you cannot ask that question_." He said, speaking to them in French, with a mischievous smile. "_Each one of the Truands either looks older than they should, or more youthful than they are_." As she watched his retreating back, she wondered which category fell into, lost in her thoughts until Katerina interrupted them.

"_I have to go soon_"

"_What do you do up in Paris?_"

Elizabeth hesitated, but Jehan had heard and answered for her "She's a whore."

"What?"

"In the city"

"There are whores enough to supply all of Paris. How can gypsies earn money in the same trade?"

"I have contacts amongst the guards. They spread stories about our culture, most of them lies, but enough to get customers."

"And you use your contacts, not to help your people, but for this?" she could not believe it. "Surely it puts her life in danger?"

He laughed. "She's not the only one, it brings in good money. And what makes you think they're in danger? What soldier would give them up?"

"But if anything went wrong, if they were caught! Not one of the guards would protect them."

"Well what are you going to do? Run to Trouillefou? He already knows. Don't you understand? It brings in money." And with that he nudged Elizabeth, who, with an apologetic shrug, got up and left for the city.

* * *

Clopin was walking through one of the tunnels when he saw another light bobbing into view up ahead. As it came closer, he saw that Katerina held it. She looked more healthy nowadays, and was accepted by many of the Truands as one of them. But when she saw him, her expression turned to one of fury.

"Is something the matter?" he asked her. But she just threw him a withering look and ignored him as she walked past.

This made Clopin angry. "HEY!"

"What?" she spat as she turned back.

"Have I done something?"

"_Nothing._" She muttered.

"_Then why do I get this treatment_?"

She sighed irritably, and gritted her teeth; "I'm sorry." With that, she nodded to him, and began to walk away, before he caught her arm. She looked up in distrust.

"Why are you acting like this?"

"No reason." So she wasn't going to tell him.

"Fine then. Go on your way."

Clopin watched her stalk away. He knew she would become impatient with being stuck down in the catacombs, but it had barely been a month. Clearly she possessed less endurance than he had thought.

Perhaps he should have let her out for the Feast of Fools. The Truands made a huge commotion about it each year, but he hadn't wanted her around the city on that January 6th, in case she tried to return to the streets. So he had forbidden them from telling her. It was the only time that the women who stayed in the catacombs that day had made such an impact, when their usual sniping and grumbling had increased, and she had mentioned it offhand in the evening. He should have let her go, considering her demeanour now. No, considering her demeanour now, he was glad he hadn't let her go. And with that thought shoved to the back of his head, he stormed away in the opposite direction.


	9. Executioner II

**AN**: I'm so sorry for the wait, my laptop crashed! nightmare, but its all better now, so here's chapter 9, enjoy.

* * *

When Elizabeth returned that night, Katerina made sure to show that she was not bothered by the way her friend made a living. Elizabeth was a little abashed, unusual in itself, and brought the subject up herself.

"_Jehan's right. We make good money._"

"_And how much does he take_?"

She hesitated "_It depends_."

"_When you say us... how many_?"

"_A fair few. You understand why I don't want to tell you wh_o?"

Katerina nodded. It was the last they spoke about it.

* * *

The two girls got on well, partially because they didn't tell each other much. But they did understand each other. Elizabeth had a vibrant personality, and a good sense of humour. She was vain at times (with good reason – she was pretty), and perhaps a little cruel. The day before, a young Truand boy had been caught trying to steal from his father. She had been one voice in a crowd which called for his punishment. Ha was lucky to escape; only being put into the stocks. She gave off an impression of being very strong; whether or not she really was, nobody knew. Katerina's French was hardly perfect, and so she could be a little withdrawn at times. But she had a sharp mind and tongue, which she often displayed when challenged. This was happening more now. Spending every day away from the real world made her irritable at times, and at those times she had less control over her temper. Once or twice she'd been caught up in fights and was able to hold her own. After a few more months, she didn't even slip into English anymore, speaking only in French. And yet she still avoided revealing too much about herself.

* * *

One night, she was sitting in the Court of Miracles with Elizabeth, Esmeralda, and another girl a little older, Suzanne. Esmeralda was explaining where her name had come from. She held up a necklace with a large paste emerald set in it.

"I've had it since I was born."

Her goat, Djali was nudging her elbow, asking for attention, so she turned for a moment to pay her some. When she turned back, she looked a little emotional.

"I still hope to find my mother one day."

There was silence for a few moments. Elizabeth began fingering her own amulet, Katerina adjusted the belt which again tied her knife to her leg, whilst Suzanne studied the table intensely as an uncomfortable feeling filled the air. It was broken suddenly by Clopin, who was walking past them.

"What's happening?"

Katerina sighed,

"Nothing."

"As ever." he shot back, unblinking.

"We're talking about my name." Esmeralda answered hesitantly.

"Your name? What a coincidence. I have a question about names. Who is Katerina Ruyerfurd?"

Katerina looked up, surprised. "I am."

"I thought it was Rutherford."

"It's pronounced Rutherford."

"Which is not an English name." He retorted.

She rolled her eyes. "Because it's Scottish."

The rest of the group were surprised by this. "My father is Scottish. Does it matter?"

"Why didn't you say?"

"I didn't think it was that important. You've already said my bloodline didn't matter."

Clopin seemed a little taken aback. Perhaps he had assumed she was lying to him. Unthinking bastard. He turned from the table, and marched away, pushing past a brawling pair twice his size, as if brushing a fly aside.

"Why him?" She asked the others. "Why's he King?"

They hushed her, then Esmeralda said,

"He's very smart."

Elizabeth added in "Surprisingly strong though,"

then Suzanne too, "And he's respected. He does what's best for all of us."

Katerina was taken aback by their instant replies. She didn't think he was a bad King, but she had always found him an odd choice.

"I would have expected someone like Jehan to force their way in."

Suzanne laughed.

"No, Jehan wouldn't stand a chance against Clopin. You might get a chance to see what I mean soon, the tensions been rising amongst some of them."

"So the men respect him for... that, do they?"

"Yes, and the women respect him too, of course."

When Elizabeth saw Katerina's expression, she smiled knowingly

"I know what you're thinking. And yes, that does matter here. Particularly the respect of those as popular as La Esmeralda." She gestured to Esmeralda, who smiled. "He doesn't treat the girls like meat. Like Jehan used to. Of course, he can have any girl he wants."Katerina snorted in scorn. "Don't be like that," Elizabeth continued, "you know full well that it's true. But he doesn't abuse it. He doesn't have to pursue girls." She smirked "They come to him." With this, she exchanged a look with Suzanne which was a little too knowing. "Of course, they don't stay. Why would they? He's a wonderful man, but to stay with him, it wears you down. You end up feeling hurt and jealous, because he won't show his faults. At least, he acts normally, but doesn't let anything slip." She sighed at Katerina's confused expression. "You know what I mean. We all know. He hides everything." When she saw that Katerina had grasped her meaning, she nodded, before adding in a murmur, "You should know about that." and turning back to fiddling with her amulet as they sat in silence, avoiding each other's eyes.

Eventually, Katerina stood up, and walked back to a place where she often spent time nowadays. The entrance of the passage which led to the graveyard. She sat in the corner, and just watched it. She was forbidden from going any farther, and there were guards who knew this. Eventually, one of them, a man she only knew as Mathieu walked past her, wearing black clothing and bones, to blend in with the skeletons lining the entrance. He paused, and looked at her.

"Better get going Katerina."

She nodded, and got up to leave, as he walked on into the darkness. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. Without a second's hesitation, she had turned, drawing her knife, only to have the hand catch her wrist, and found herself standing far too close to Clopin Trouillefou. He raised his eyebrows a fraction, and at this, she dropped her arm, sheathing the knife, and backing off.

"Sorry. Instinct."

He jerked his head a little, showing that it didn't bother him, before speaking,

"Katerina," and she looked up at him.

* * *

"I don't know what happened. You haven't spoken to me for months now. What happened?" and as she paused, he realised that this was the first time her expression had shown anything but frustration at his presence. That was a good sign at least, even if her face was as unreadable as ever.

"Nothing." And this time there was no anger in her voice.

"Still nothing?"

She hesitated, looking down at her dusty feet, then back at him before saying decidedly,

"Yes. It was nothing." She almost looked a little disappointed in herself.

"Then surely I deserve an apology."

She looked away again, and grimaced in indecision. Eventually, she met his gaze again, and her eyes appeared to seek forgiveness as she said "No."

He took a deep breath, rolling his neck, before deciding on his answer.

"Fine. You don't apologise, I don't apologise. We forget this. Alright?"

She considered a moment, grinding her teeth. "Alright."

"You're far too stubborn." he said, and at last this drew a smile. The turned together to walk back to the court, and she added,

"So are you."

"I'm not stubborn!"

"Oh, shut up."

"_Rosbif_." He nudged her.

"I'm not English, _Frog_." She nudged him.

"I'm not French, urchin"

"Thief"

"Look who's talking."

"Puppet fiddler." He let out a bark of laughter. Maybe they could go back to the way they were.

* * *

Katerina was washing her feet. She did so more frequently now. Elizabeth had gotten irritated when she had accidentally traipsed blood across the floor, after cutting one somehow. It barely made any difference to the state of the room, but she still didn't like it, and Katerina avoided arguing with her too much.

Eventually, she stood up, and walked through the passageway to the Court of Miracles, instantly coating her ghostly white feet in grey dust. When she reached it, she was surprised to find that there was nobody there. She took a lump of bread, and eventually decided that somebody must have been put in the stocks. She ran down the dimly lit tunnel, hearing the shouts of the Truands in the distance. It wasn't until she entered the area and saw the crowd around the gallows, and the two men stood on the gibbet, that she realised it was a hanging. Intruders. She ran forward to join the crowd, catching sight of La Esmeralda at the edge of the crowd. The girl disliked violence far more than the rest of the gypsies, and was not shouting along with them.

"Who?"

"Four men. Well," she paused, and the trapdoors opened, releasing them. "two."

"And they refused to become Truands?"

Esmeralda nodded.

"Three of them refused straight. The fourth wouldn't even speak."

By now, they had both finished struggling, and were being lowered down by a pair of Truands. Above the din, she caught Clopin ordering them;

"Don't cut the rope. No use in wasting it." The crowd laughed at this, and Katerina with them.

Esmeralda was watching her.

"I wouldn't expect you to be able to watch this. Not after what nearly happened."

"It's different. They deserve it. I don't remember that very well." she said, knowing she was lying. She wasn't bothered by it, but she didn't gain the same joy as the rest of the crowd did, when the dim memories of a rope around her neck still haunted her dreams, disturbing only in the comfort they brought her. "Besides, I could use all the entertainment I can get." She added bitterly.

Esmeralda answered the last statement, ignoring the rest. "You're bound to be let out soon. It must have been around six months by now, they can't keep you here too long."

That was a surprise. Katerina had lost count of the days a very long time ago now. "But I doubt that's going to be long enough, after all..."

She trailed off, as she saw the next two men being forced onto the scaffold. One of them was unmoving in pointless defiance, whereas the other was putting up a fight. He kicked out, despite having his legs tied, and was struggling with his captors. Clopin yawned loudly, but she barely noticed, her eyes still fixed on the face of the struggling intruder.

A face she knew.

She was frozen to the spot. A noose was set around his neck, and suddenly she broke free of the crowd.

Only two thoughts filled her entire mind. Stop Clopin. Or if she couldn't, pull on the man's legs. Clopin was rallying the crowd to yell louder, drowning out both his shouts, and hers, as she hurtled around the huge group, and attempted to force her way through. This was met with shouts of anger, and as she shoved her way past each Truand, they would turn to start a fight, but she would have moved on, still ramming her way through the crowd as each elbow, fist and body buffeted against her, until she reached the very edge, and seeing that the ladder had been removed, took a running leap at the stage. She dragged herself onto it, and saw Clopin reaching for the lever. She slammed into him, knocking him away, and as they fell off the stage, he somehow managed to twist in midair, causing her to land flat on her back, with him pinning her down.

Fury flooded his eyes, and then suddenly broke as he recognised her. He jumped up, staring in disbelief as she gasped, the air having been knocked out of her by the fall. After a moment or two, she struggled back onto the stage, ran to the second man, lifted the noose back over his head, and then dragged him away from the trapdoor. She stopped, then saw Clopin standing before her, confusion still present on his face, as he stared from her to the man, who in his shock, had stopped struggling. She couldn't think of anything else to say, instead begging him through her expression to understand, as she said,

"He's my brother."

* * *

The crowd was shouting, and yet he couldn't listen to them. He could only stare at her. Her eyes were huge, pleading, startlingly blue in the light. And the man stood next to her... his eyes drifted to his face. Their features were not entirely dissimilar. He looked him up and down again, and she added;

"His name is Hugh. Hugh Rutherford." From the look of shock on the man's face, he took both two assumptions; firstly, he had no idea who the girl stood beside him was, and secondly, she was telling the truth. This was his name. He really was her brother. O God.

He looked back at Katerina, and told her quietly "He was caught with three men who were planning to find us, and then inform Frollo of our location. He was planning to destroy us."

At this, he shook her head, but he knew it was not in disbelief at his words. She gritted her teeth, shaking her head from side to side, before she suddenly let loose, throwing a punch at her brother, and knocked him unconscious. The crowd roared with a mixture of delight at this, and disappointment at the interruption of the hanging. Katerina kicked her brother in the side, and Clopin could have sworn he heard a sob as she shouted at his useless body. Clopin made a sign, and the ladder was placed against the stage, and two Truands ran forward to pick up the unconscious Rutherford sibling. He took hold of Katerina's arm, and pulled her away. As he did, he yanked the lever, sending the unluckier intruder plummeting, to cheers from the grateful crowd.


	10. Judge II

Mathieu had untied Hugh's feet, but left his hands bound as he hauled him to the Court of Miracles. Katerina walked in silence. Her body ached from the fall, and from forcing her way through the crowd, but she made no indication of this. She walked alongside Clopin, both avoiding each other's eyes. La Esmeralda had caught up with them.

"What's happening?"

Katerina didn't turn her head, looking straight ahead as she muttered,

"He's my brother."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Esmeralda vanish into the crowd now following them. She couldn't think straight. The thoughts were clamouring inside her head, each one screaming at her.

It couldn't be true. But it had been so long since she had last seen Hugh, and then they had had opposing views on gypsies. For all she knew, his character had now changed beyond recognition. She felt torn, between her brother and the group who had taken her in and accepted her as one of them.

But by now they had reached the court, and she knew what was to come. She didn't expect any apology for it, but as the crowd assembled, Clopin did turn to her.

"Do you want to defend him?"

She could barely speak, and just shook her head. It was too much to defend Hugh's actions against the Truands. She could tell Clopin was studying her expression, and she avoided looking at everyone else, as the whispers of Hugh's identity spread around the group. Clopin eventually agreed,

"Alright, but I will need you to translate. I don't want Jehan doing it."

She nodded, and took a deep breath as Hugh was pushed into the centre, and forced to his knees. Clopin squeezed her arm unexpectedly, before walking forward to address him.

* * *

"Hugh Rutherford?" the accused man looked up at him in complete confusion. "_Do you understand me?_" The confusion became merged with surprise. He could hear Katerina behind him, translating in a hollow voice.

"_Yes._" He said hesitantly.

"_Is that why you didn't answer me when your comrades did?"_

He nodded, and now Clopin saw in his huge, wide eyes a similar expression to the one Katerina had worn when she first declared her name. There was desperation to be understood. But there was also something she had never shown. Pure, unabashed fear. Coward. If it was his choice, he'd send him straight back to the gallows. But he couldn't do that. Not yet.

"_Do you know where you are?_"

He nodded again, and as he did, a tear rolled down his cheek.

"_Why did you come here?_"

He choked, but there was nobody to offer him help. Clopin began to lose patience.

"_Answer me or hang._"

The man spluttered, before taking a few gasps, and answering him. "_My sister._"

He heard Katerina's sharp intake of breath, and held his hand up, not turning to look at her. If he did, he might break. And he needed to hear this man's testament, without knowing that his sister was stood ten feet from them.

"_She disappeared from her house last year. I returned to Paris in March, to re-establish the contacts my father had lost. I was told that my sister was killed by gypsies._" Here he stopped, and broke down further.

"_You haven't answered my question though. Why did you come here? If you don't answer, we will force it out of you._"

The man kneeling in front of him answered in a hoarse, quiet voice.

"_I met a man who spoke passable English. He had seen gypsies entering the graveyard. He was planning to take two friends down to see if this was indeed what they called the Court of Miracles. They were going to tell Frollo, and gain a reward. I asked to come with them._"

As he stopped, the Truands began screaming abuse at him, until Clopin shouted for silence, and waited for the man to speak again, trying to ignore the disgust that had filled him.

"_I just wanted to see if it was true. To see whether or not she was still alive._"

"_What would you have done if you saw her?_"

He paused, and shook his head, now freely sobbing. "_I don't know. I didn't expect her to be. But she's not here is she? She's dead._"

Clopin paused watching the man break down, and a trickle of empathy found its way into the disgust. He turned to Katerina.

"Well?"

She choked a little before saying,

"He's telling the truth."

Jehan pushed his way towards them.

"You can't be serious. He's lying!"

"No-" she interrupted, "I'd know."

Jehan moved very close to her, a sneer spread across his face.

"Then you're lying too."

It should have been a pathetic sight to see, the enormous man towering over her, but as she stared back at him, he seemed to waver a little, and his expression became a little uncertain.

"Enough." Clopin had decided. "She's right. Look at him, he's broken. He's not lying." The three turned to watch him as he sank lower and lower, until he was curled up on the floor. There was no use in questioning him now.

"_You're sister's not dead_." He said loudly.

The pathetic excuse for a man woke from his misery.

"_What?_"

"_She's not dead._" The man looked up.

Clopin turned, and nudged Katerina. But she couldn't seem to meet his eyes.

"I can't." She whispered.

She was staring at the ground, and only looked up when she heard Hugh ask,

"_Where?_"

Her head snapped up, and tears filled her eyes, she moved closer to him, and they looked at each other. Her expression was one of loathing, but perhaps it was self-loathing. Her brother studied her, and there was little comprehension on his face. The fool.

Clopin looked at Katerina. Perhaps she did look different. He searched his mind for the memory of her when he had first seen her last year. Arguing with her brother. No, she did look different now. She was ghostly white, due to her seclusion, her bone structure was more clearly defined from her months of starvation, and her straight hair was uncovered, falling to her waist, with a few odd braids she had made during hours of boredom. She looked so different. How could he not have noticed?

But the idiot stood in front of her still didn't see. And Clopin could see the hurt filling her, until she ripped the necklace from her ankle, and ran forward, thrusting it in front of her brother's face.

"_This! Don't you recognise this?_"

Hugh Rutherford looked from the necklace to the girl in front of him. And suddenly, he saw his sister. He reached out to hold her, but she pulled away, shaking her head from side to side.

"_Kat?_"

"_Don't call me that_." she snapped. "_Don't you dare_."

"_But you're alive, you're_... "

"_Of course I am! What in the name of damnation made you think they'd taken me? What made you trust those bastards?_"

"_I... I... I thought you were..."_

"_And then you decided to come down here? Putting your own pathetic life at risk. You could have died_." She looked at him with disgust, and then added, "_You still could._"

His head snapped up. "_What?" _when she didn't reply, he asked another question;"_What happened?_"

She paused, then told him; "_I ran away. I spent enough time on the streets, on rooftops, until I was barely alive. And then I came here. And I became a Truand. And then you came. And if you want to live, you will have to do the same. They took me in; they may not do the same for you._"

Clopin took her aside.

"Are you alright?"

"No."

"I see. Are you sure about this?"

She looked up at him.

"He's barely my brother anymore. Besides, there's no other way."

"I know."

She made a scornful noise.

"Then don't ask."

He watched her for another fraction of a second, before turning to Hugh. He was reluctant to ask, but he had to. He had given the other intruders a chance, and they had declined. Now it was this man's turn.

"_Are you a Truand at heart_?"

He appeared to consider for a moment, before answering;

"_Yes_"

"_Are you a thief, a beggar, a vagrant, a receiver of stolen goods or one who must hide from the world?_"

"_I... no. I'm not._"

Clopin was unimpressed now. Some trials could be irritating, but having to try this particular man was downright infuriating.

He swore, and then made the sign for the mannequin. The gallows were set up, along with the stool and the bell-coated mannequin.

"_Get onto the stool, and then twist your right leg around your left. Stand on your toes, and take the purse from the mannequin's pocket. If a bell rings, you hang._" His irritation was quite clear, and he realised he was losing his composure, so drew it back in.

"There's no use." Katerina's voice was dull and monotonous. "It's been years since he's done anything like this."

And as they watched, Hugh, still trembling, got onto the stool. He raised his arm incredibly slowly, and reached up, until he located the pocket.

But as his hand slipped inside it, there was a jingle of bells. He screamed and fell to the ground, sobbing again. Mathieu removed the mannequin, and put the noose over his head. Only now did Katerina start forward, but Clopin held out his arm, stopping her.

"_Wait. There is one final option. If any of the women present here will have you, you will be spared._"

He turned to the court and addressed them. "Well? Who wants this fine figure of a man?" Most laughed, but a few stepped forward, most of them friends of Katerina. Elizabeth took a brief look at him, and shook her head. After inspection, so did most others. Then La Esmeralda said,

"I will."

"No." Clopin looked around, to see the old woman, Moude, standing behind him. "I'll have this one."

Katerina gave a short cackle, and nodded. Hugh was removed from the gallows and pushed in front of Clopin, as Moude joined him. A pitcher was handed to him, and after Clopin instructed him to do so, he dropped it, and it broke into three pieces.

"_You are married now, for three years. Brother._" Clopin smiled, then turned from the scene. He could not let his disgust show. The Truands did not crowd around thier newest member, but returned to muttered rumors and half-glances, as Hugh attempted to go to Katerina, but she pushed her way back into the crowd.


	11. King II

Katerina lay on her bed, and tried her hardest not to think about Hugh.

But she was restless. She stood up, moved about the tiny room, curling up in the corner, then the middle of the floor, then back to her bed. For want of some distraction, she unsheathed her knife. It was blunt. She wandered back downstairs, and found a whetting stone, and sharpened. Then she went back upstairs, and sat in the corner throwing the knife into a beam in the wall, then going to retrieve it again.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

"Shit!" as she pulled it out of the beam, the blade caught her palm and she dropped the knife, holding her hand to stem the flow of blood. She ran back downstairs to find a scrap of material to tie around it, and found Clopin standing in the entrance to the house, Hugh behind him.

"Get out." Though she directed this at Hugh, it was Clopin who answered.

"No, this is – what happened?" seeing her hand, he rushed forward in concern, but she pushed him away.

"It's nothing. Just a cut." She found a long piece of rag, and attempted to bind the wound, but it was difficult to do.

"Let me." Unwillingly, she did, and he tied it up, a little too tightly perhaps, but she as she attempted to pull her had away, he held on. "We need to sort this out. You know we do."

"Then why not do it in the court?"

"Because you're avoiding it."

"And you won't let me." It wasn't a question. She knew she had no choice. She tugged her hand from his, and reluctantly agreed. "Fine. _Come in_."

Hugh entered the room. He seemed wary, no doubt because of her treatment of him earlier.

"_You speak French now._" She only nodded.

Clopin watched the two siblings as they stood in front of each other. One was searching for something to say, but the look of the other prevented him from getting even a single word out.

"_You can't stay here."_ She said.

He stared at her in shock. "_But I found you. If... if you're not leaving then neither am I."_

"_No._" Her expression was unchanging, her gaze icy, and he trembled under it. "_If there was such a disturbance after my leaving, what do you think will happen when you disappear?_"

Clopin then chose to ask what was really important.

"_Who else_ _knew you were coming here?_"

"_No, no I swear, nobody knew, no one._"

Katerina was studying him carefully. "_Fine, so you didn't tell anyone. But you can't stay here._"

"_But..._"

"_No. I don't want you here._"

She was shaking, and Clopin knew it was time to end this.

"_You can't come back here_."

"But, surely..."

"_Katerina can't leave here, and I won't have you return._"

Hugh looked from Clopin to Katerina, then back to Clopin, as tears filled his eyes again.

"_What do you mean?_" and now anger began to show through as he moved closer. "_Why do you have such power over her?_"

Clopin drew himself up, "_Do you know even know who I am_?"

He watched Hugh attempting to study him. "_Trouillefou, isn't it? You're a beggar aren't you_?"

He stared at the pathetic man who attempted to hold his gaze in vain.

"_I am so much more than that. I am the King of Tunis, successor to the supreme sovereign of Argot. Leader and protector of Truands. I am Clopin Trouillefou. Who are you? Nobody. Your sister has lived her life away from the light of day for half a year, but she is accepted here. She is loved here. She is wanted here. You are not._"

He studied the man, who had slowly shrunken back, then added; "_I will give you five minutes with your sister. Then you will return to Paris, and never tell anyone of this place. Do you understand me?_" Hugh nodded, and Clopin turned to leave. But as he did, he felt Katerina's hand on his arm, and she moved very close, and he felt her warm breath on his cheek as she whispered,

"Don't go. Please... I... I can't do this alone." He only blinked at her, but then moved back into the corner of the room, watching the scene instead of leaving it.

* * *

"_Katerina._ _What do we do?_"

She couldn't understand him.

"_What do you mean?_"

"_I can't come back. You can't leave. We'll never see each other again._"

She looked at the floor.

"_Good._"

"_How can you be saying that? My sister wouldn't say that._"

"_Then I guess I'm not your sister anymore."_

"_You're pushing me away again, Katerina, stop it, please! I can't take this!"_

But she pushed on relentlessly. It had to be done.

"_In fact Hugh, I'd say I stopped being your sister the day you returned to England_."

"_You're angry at me, for leaving you?_"

"_No. I can barely look at you, because you acted like I had no other options in life than the one that was planned out for me_."

His voice was quiet now. "_But... you said you would try_._ You told me on that day that you would try._"

And something in her snapped.

"_Why would I ever want to? What part of you thinks of me as a person who resigns themselves to a life of imprisonment?_"

"_But you have!_" he shouted, "_You're stuck here, in this, this place_!"

" '_This place' is my home!" S_he could not bear to admit that he was partially right.

"_You're lying_."

"_No, not this time I'm not_."

He was clutching at his head in despair.

"_But what sort of a life is this?_"

The anger was rising up in her, and as it began to flow freely, she shook a little and said in a low voice,

"_One I would chose every time. This is where I live. I live amongst the fights, the shouting, the singing. The disgusting beasts and beautiful creatures of the night. The old, the sick, the young, the ugly, the stinking. This violent, hideous life is the one I have chosen. That is how you see it. But to me it is the only home I would ever want. You were lucky not to hang. You won't be next time. Now get out_."

Throughout this, her brother had only stared back at her in terror, and now she could look at him no longer. She turned away.

* * *

Clopin moved forward. He hauled the broken excuse for a man out of the house, and shut the door. He then half dragged him back to the graveyard. He couldn't believe he was just letting him go like this. In fact, he half considered killing him, and stashing his body amongst the skeletons, but he couldn't do that. Hugh Rutherford would be missed by society, enough for the persecutions to worsen.

"_Tell anyone, and I will know._" He began to turn, but then Hugh cried out,

"_Wait! Could I at least ask after my sister if I was to see you in the streets?_" And the reverent desperation in his voice softened Clopin for a moment.

"_Fine. But don't draw attention to yourself when you do._" He said, not looking back.

And with that, he took his leave. As he walked past Katerina's house, he considered going in. There was still a dim light coming from the kitchen. He looked in at the window, and saw the charred remains of the fire, still glowing slightly. And then he saw her, sitting in the corner, hugging her knees to her chest, and burying her face in them. Her shoulders headed as she sobbed. So she had lied. She still cared about her brother, just enough that it hurt too much. Clopin had never seen her cry. Not like that. He nearly went in to comfort her, but as his hand moved towards the door, something in him stopped it. He stood there for a moment, his hand hovering, before he turned and walked away, trying to stem the thoughts now flowing through his mind.


	12. Torturer II

That night, when Elizabeth finally returned, Katerina was in her bed, and deep in thought. She rolled towards the wall as the door opened, and the light from a candle gently lit the area. Elizabeth sat down on the end of the bed.

"Moude's grumbling. She says that this husband disappeared faster than the last one. Do you want to talk?"

She didn't reply. She almost wanted to, but she couldn't. After a minute, Elizabeth got up, and left the room. Nobody else ever spoke to her about the events of that night.

* * *

It was not until four months later that anything else of particular importance happened. In the space inbetween, twelve more men and a small girl had become Truands, another three children had been born, seven Truands had been executed by Frollo, and nine spies had been hanged in return. The food was becoming scarcer, as they were storing more for the winter months, and many times they could be boiling bones several times over to make a thin liquid, more water than broth. Elizabeth was worried that she and Katerina would have to leave and join another, larger household, now that parents were pushing Clopin for better housing. She was also working more than usual, going out both during evenings and at daytime. She said she had found a client who had taken a particular liking to her, and Katerina was disturbed by this. She had grown more and more restless, spending her free time running from one end of the catacombs to the other, and then waiting at the various entrances. Each time that someone entered, she would ask about the world above ground. There wasn't much to tell. Persecutions were increasing, it was raining more, and the warm months were fading fast. She assumed that it was now sometime around the end of September.

The week when everything started to change was when Katerina realised that Elizabeth should not have been working, but helping in the court.

"Where were you today?" she asked on night.

"Working. Where else?"

Katrina hesitated, unsure of how to say what was on her mind. "Elizabeth, it's been six weeks since you last bled."

"No, you must be mistaken."

"You know I'm not. Six weeks, Elizabeth. You don't think –" she trailed off and looked at her feet. She didn't want to say it.

When Elizabeth spoke again, her voice was uncommonly quiet,

"Well, it was bound to come out eventually. I should have known you'd notice." Katerina looked up in shock, and the two stared at each other for a moment, until Elizabeth suddenly began to cry.

"Woah woah, _wheesht _Bessie_, wheesht_", Katerina ran to her friend, and rocked her slowly, as Elizabeth clung on to her.

"I can't go through this! What are we going to do? I can't get any money if I'm.. if I'm pregnant!" the guttural sobs racked through her throat now.

"Surely you can tell someone? There must be something you can do?"

"NO!" she shrieked her eyes wide with terror, "I can't tell anyone, if Jehan found out, he'd he'd... it's happened before, and he... he got rid of it."

"You mean you're keeping it? But..."

"I'll die, I know, I know. But I was with a girl when she had hers... taken, and I can't, I can't, Katerina, I can't go through that!"

"Shhh, it's going to be alright." Katerina rocked her back and forth, slowly, unable to think of anything to say.

Eventually, Elizabeth quietened down, and Katerina helped her upstairs and into bed, where she left her still crying softly. She couldn't tell anyone. But she had to do something. Oh God. She was going to regret this, she knew.

She ran to a house a little way away, and knocked on the door. After a few seconds, it opened, and Jehan's huge frame filled the entrance, towering over her.

"What?"

"Can I come in? I need to talk to you."

He considered, and then turned back into the house, leaving the door free for her to enter through.

"What is it?" he asked, sitting on a table.

"Can you get me out of here?"

He laughed. "No. Although, for the sake of it, why do you want to leave?"

"I'm not leaving," she replied quickly, "I just need to get back to the streets for a night or two. Elizabeth's ill. I need to get some money, she won't be able to earn any." She then avoided his eyes, hoping he didn't guess the truth.

"Why me?" he asked.

"You're not going to tell anyone."

"Aren't I?"

"No, because I'll give you a share in whatever I make."

He considered for a while, leaning back onto his hands, and then,

"Alright. Tomorrow evening. I'll find you" he leered at her, and she backed out of the house before he went back on his decision.

She smiled to herself as she ran back to her house. She wasn't going to give anything to Jehan. That would wound his pride, and he'd try and betray her. But even if that was his original plan, he couldn't and clearly hadn't thought it through, as he'd then have to admit to the entire court that he'd helped her leave. That would be death for both of them. He'd have some care over his life, even if she didn't.

That night, she tried to sleep but couldn't. She knew she should be anxious about Elizabeth and her baby, but she couldn't repress her excitement. She was going to leave the catacombs. For the first time in nearly a year.

* * *

But that following day, something happened she had not expected. Elizabeth stayed underground that day, helping with the cooking – that was, until she threw up, and was sent away by one of the more irritable old women. Katerina didn't see her until later, in the Court of Miracles, when most of the other Truands had returned. Unfortunately for her, the old woman had been able to put two and two together, and had told her friend. Who had told their friend. Who had told their friend. Who had told Clopin.

He sat down next to them, looking unusually concerned, and whispered into Elizabeth's ear. She looked at him, and her lower lip trembled a little, as she nodded.

"Who?" he asked quietly.

She looked away. Even Katerina didn't know who the father was. She doubted Elizabeth would tell.

"We should talk somewhere else," he said, and began to get up, but then Jehan arrived.

"So, Elizabeth. Feeling unwell are we?" His expression was hard as stone, and Katerina could sense the fury flowing out of him.

"Jehan, what's all this got to do with you?" Clopin snapped at him. Jehan's expression told them that he had not seen the King sitting there. He looked between the towering figure and Elizabeth a few times, "It's not..."

"No!" Katerina interrupted him before she could stop herself, and Clopin rounded on her.

"So **you** know."

"Know what?"

"Katerina this is no time to be playing games. Tell me who the father is."

She shrugged, and said,

"She won't tell me."

Clopin sighed and pushed his tongue against his pointed canines in thought.

"Right then. No use leaving now, it'll just attract attention. Sit down Jehan," he added, seeing him beginning to creep away "You're involved somehow. Hmmm. Alright, is he a Truand?" Elizabeth shook her head, and he rolled his eyes.

"Excellent start. Now just the rest of Paris to get through." as Clopin continued, Elizabeth studied the table, avoiding his eyes. "He is a Parisian I assume? Yes? Alright. Baker?" Elizabeth shook her head. "No. Beggar? No. Sailor? No. Soldier?" he laughed as he threw in the last, evidently intending it as a joke. His expression changed as Elizabeth did not shake her head. "What?" he shook himself, and repeated the question; "What? Elizabeth, who?"

She whispered in a tiny voice, "Thibault de Hacqueville"

"WHAT?!" now the attention of the court turned to their table, most of the fights breaking up just to listen.

When Elizabeth didn't look at him, he grabbed her face and turned it towards him, and did not let go, despite his struggles.

"What were you doing with him? He's a lieutenant in the King's Archers, Elizabeth; did you want to get yourself killed?! How did you meet each other?"

Elizabeth did not speak, but her eyes drifted towards Jehan.

Clopin released her, and rounded on Jehan. "Explain. Now."

When Jehan said nothing, Clopin stood, and dragged him to his feet, pulling him closer, over the table. Jehan was clever enough not to fight back, but he wasn't clever enough to speak. And Clopin snapped. He hauled the enormous figure out of the court, and towards the area with the gibbet, stocks and where Katerina had been beaten. She was about to follow, but Elizabeth gave a cry and she turned back to her. La Esmeralda had been hovering, waiting to swoop in and care for her. Together they helped her up, and despite temptations to watch Jehan's inquest, she had to take care of Elizabeth.

* * *

In the meantime, Clopin was experiencing a mixture of anger and exultation he had not felt in years, and he did not doubt it would get worse very, very soon. Whenever Jehan finally succumbed to the blows of the staff now landing on his back, and spoke the truth. He was finally suffering the very torture he had made so many others endure, but had never undergone himself, and would not last long. And secretly, deep in the depths of his mind, Clopin was hoping he would never need to stop this punishment. He had been waiting a very long time to do this.


	13. Fool

**AN** im so sorry this is up late, broken laptop! ok, so a little hastily written, sorry for any mistakes. about Jehan: no, he's not Jehan Frollo, i was going to give him a different name but forgot to change it, simple as. ill try and update again soon.

* * *

Katerina was sitting outside Elizabeth's room. No noise had come from inside for a while. Even the faint sobs and moans had quietened now. Trying to avoid making the floor creak, she crawled along the landing, and pushed open the door to her room. La Esmeralda was fast asleep on Katerina's bed, but she stirred as the candle next to her fluttered a little. Katerina pulled the door shut again, not wanting to wake her. She inched her way down the stairs, and poured together some water from a bucket by the door, and some from a kettle hanging near enough to the fire to still be hot. She fetched several clean pieces of rag, and took them and the bucket of warm water upstairs.

As quietly as she could, she edged Elizabeth's door open. Exhaustion seemed to have finally overpowered Elizabeth, who was lying curled up in the corner of the room. She had spent hours fighting off anyone who attempted to go near her, but now the hands that had clung to her bloodied sheets and skirts, lay listless.

Katerina remade the bed, and before changing Elizabeth out of her clothes. She cleaned the blood from her and dressed her in a clean white shift. She was still moving in her sleep, but made no effort to push Katerina away as she was lowered onto her bed, and wrapped in several blankets. As Elizabeth drew her knees to her chest, and buried her face in them, still asleep, Katerina blew out the candle, and moved back to the landing, taking the sheets, clothes, and bucket with her.

Carefully, she tied up the sheets and clothes, took a breath, and then walked out of the house. She walked swiftly through the passageway, worried someone may see her, but no one was about. The air was still. There wasn't even any noise. All the Truands were probably She went to an area where she helped with the washing, and cleaned all of the clothes and sheets as best she could, before hanging them up to dry. But she did not know what to do now. She sat next to the larger tub, and was silent for a while. She didn't know what she was meant to feel. Her head hurt from the anguish the three girls had been through that evening, but now all she felt was anger. Eventually she stood up and headed back to the court.

As she entered the court, she heard Clopin's voice ringing around the area. There was such power in it, she nearly ran back to the house. The crowd was gathered round him in the corner of the room.

"This will never happen again. Is that understood?"

He was finished. She should leave. But she didn't want to go back there. Just possibly, here was better. And she needed to know what had happened to Jehan. As she drew closer, the surrounding crowd parted a little, to let her through. Clopin was stood in front of the fire, which was now dying down, and a line of about thirteen women of varying ages stood before him.

Jehan was bent over in the corner. His shirt had been ripped, and there were angry red and purple welts across his back, interrupted in places where the skin had been torn off. Judging by the size of the marks, he had been beaten. But it was nothing, she knew. He could not have lasted more than an hour, if that. She had seen enough beatings to guess the damage done to her own back, and Jehan's pathetic attempt at endurance disgusted her further.

Katerina suddenly realised that she was being watched. She looked around, to see the majority of the court staring at her, and her gaze settled on Clopin, who appeared to be having difficulty in restraining himself. His fists were so tight that he was probably drawing blood, and the tension from them was drawn up his thin arms, neck, to his locked jaw. He had removed his hat, and his hair stood up in places where he had clutched at it.

"You and Elizabeth will move out of her house tomorrow." his voice was hollow. She dared not speak. "She will move in with Loyse and Emmelot." he gestured stiffly towards two girls on the end of the line. "You will live with La Esmeralda, now that Marion" he nodded towards another, smaller girl, "is leaving their house."

"No!" Katerina cried out, before she could stop herself. "She needs me."

"No, they need each other now." His voice remained emotionless. Some members of the crowd began to move back to the tables, but others remained, sensing danger, and anticipating the outcome.

She hesitated, before asking,

"Are they going to be punished?"

Clopin shook his head once, but his expression remained locked.

"And him?" she cast her eyes to Jehan.

If it was possible, Clopin's expression darkened further.

"He will be punished. And afterwards he will not be allowed to leave the catacombs. Ever."

"What?" the shock leapt through her, and she moved further into the centre now. "Your idea of justice is to keep him here? A cell mate for me?"

And now he took a step towards her,

"Well what do you suggest we do? Kill him?" the anger now began to show through in his voice, but she no longer cared, hers had already been unleashed.

"Yes!"

"I can't." He said, though clearly disgusted by his own words, rather than hers "He did nothing to merit death."

"He put every one of their lives in danger!" Katerina gestured towards the women who were now drawing back into the crowd. "He nearly killed four of them through abortions; any one of them could have died. Elizabeth nearly have died tonight! She lost her baby, because of the stress she's been under, keeping it from him, because she was so scared! Do you understand that?"

"It happens." The words came swiftly and bluntly, and Katerina barely stopped herself from hitting him. As it was, her arm moved a fraction, and she knew he saw it because he suddenly sprang forward, standing very close to her. She would not move. Not an inch. And Clopin, standing a head taller than her, looked down her with his black eyes, and she could not tell what he was thinking. His teeth were gritted, his breathing shallow and ragged, and the question he asked seemed to be torn from his very being: "Did you know? Before tonight?"

She would not look away, and said as clearly and bluntly as he had,

"Yes."

Before she had time to notice, she was flying through the air, and then slammed into a wall. The Truands had thrown themselves aside in fear of being hit, and now crowded closer to watch, nobody daring to stop the King, so fierce was his rage as he forced the girl against the stone.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" He cried out at her in anguish. She could barely breathe. He had pinned her to the wall at his eye level, one hand against the base of her throat, and the other arm across her shoulders, and her legs dangled uselessly in midair. But she did not struggle, did not break eye contact. She didn't even know why, but she was frozen to the spot. He howled at her again, "I thought I could trust you, why didn't you tell me?!"

"Jehan said you knew." She coughed the words out, and they seemed to strike him dumb for a moment, before he asked in a far smaller voice,

"You trusted him over me?"

"Because I didn't think you were so stupid as to have something like this happening under your nose!" she shouted hoarsely, and her eyes stung for a reason she didn't know. For a second, the horror filled his eyes, and she thought he would kill her there and then. But then he recoiled, and she dropped to the floor, gasping as her airway was freed. She held her hand to her throat, feeling the areas where his fingers had pressed against her throat. She whispered quietly, "I'm so sorry."

She couldn't feel any anger at him now. The strength of his anger and the restraint he had shown in letting Jehan live... he cared about them. Every last one. And he thought they took him for a moron. That was why he was so hurt, so angry. He thought that they didn't trust him. That she didn't trust him. Finally she looked up. He was watching her, and as he nodded silently, he shut his eyes, and rubbed his face, beard and neck, before running his hands through his hair, and saying quietly

"Don't."

Then, without looking back, he turned from her. The Truands around them looked dejected and confused now, as they parted to let him through. For the first time, he seemed smaller than usual, in his presence, and she kept watching as the crowd swallowed him back up. She stood up, and avoiding the eyes of anyone else, walked steadily back towards home. Nobody could see the strange expression on her face, with the faintest shadow of a sad smile.

* * *

Clopin sat down on his barrel, feeling his fingers. He could have killed her. He had never felt like that before. Anger he could repress, well, after initial outbursts, but this felt terrible. It was further than betrayal or hurt, and he could not explain it. He was angry enough. The crowd around him was beginning to shout and sing and brawl as ever, but he did not listen.

Those girls. One was barely fourteen. And he had been with most of them at one point or another. Not one of them had come to tell him, to even ask if he had known. As the emotion boiled over, a Truand tripped backwards into him. Clopin pushed him off, and then knocked him out for good measure. A hush fell. He gave a small wave of his hand and sat down facing the fire, and gradually the noise built up again. Nobody approached him that night. Even as most of the Truands began to file away from the Court of Miracles, the silhouette of Clopin was still clear against the smoke and embers of the fire still sparking. And if anyone drew close enough, they would see him gazing through the smoke at something no one else could see, still gently feeling the tips of his fingers, still lost in his own thoughts.


	14. Liberator

Katerina was busy not sleeping. She slept in a corner of the kitchen, on a makeshift mattress. Esmeralda had offered her own room, but Katerina had declined repeatedly. It was not her house, and she did not want to take advantage of Esmeralda, who had already been kind enough to take her in. She was worried about Katerina, who had not taken the move well. Elizabeth improving and they visited her frequently. She was kept on bed rest by the girls she now lived with, and despite being bored, she undoubtedly needed the time away from the rest of the Truands to recuperate. But now Katerina had developed an unyielding restlessness, which meant that she barely got any sleep at all. Now she was entirely preoccupied with staring at the ceiling. She could still see well enough by the fire still flickering in the hearth. The house was smaller than Elizabeth's, and Esmeralda was younger than her, so the surroundings were a little different. She was more particular about levels of neatness in her house, and somehow it seemed more homely.

But it was not where Katerina wanted to be right now. She felt, if possible, more trapped in this house. She almost enjoyed the claustrophobia when she was trying to sleep, as it gave her less to focus on, but then it left her to her thoughts, and she began to wish she was back in her old house. Time for her medicine.

There was only one thing which helped her sleep nowadays. She got up, and slid her hand under her mattress, pulling out a bottle.

Nearly empty. How much had she drunk the night before? Enough to split her head open when she woke up the next day. Not nearly enough to smother her nightmares. She sighed, stood up, and walked out of the house. There was nobody outside, and she assumed it must be late. Or perhaps early. She passed a couple of people staggering home, and trod carefully past a pile of sleeping dogs. If they were to start barking, and wake anyone up, she'd be punished for sure.

She reached the court just as the last groups of Truands were leaving. Mathieu called out a greeting to her, his voice slightly slurred, and she nodded as she passed him, but did not stop to talk. The court was its usual mess, but it looked as though the fire had recently had more wood piled on it. It may have been damp, as the smoke issuing from it was thicker than usual, heavier, not being moved away so easily by the air which was vented through from the different exits. It hung lower in the air, and she found it slightly harder to see. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the empty barrel in front of the fire, before she swept her gaze around the rest of the court, looking for the rarity of a bottle left untouched. She shut her eyes in self disgust. That it had come to this. They snapped open again as her foot caught on something, and she fell to the ground. A dog lying under the nearest table, gnawing at a discarded bone, growled as it saw her, and she jumped to her feet. As the growling ceased, a clattering from the other side of the room caught her attention and she spun around. She walked quietly around the edge of the fire, and then noticed a figure in the other corner of the court, just as it gave a small, hoarse giggle.

"Look who we have. Come closer." Unusually, there seemed to be no command in his words, but she moved towards the figure anyway. Though they kept the firewood in a large storeroom, some of it was always piled in the corner, and Clopin was sitting atop of it. Katerina stood and watched him as he leant forward to look at her, and the wood pile wobbled threateningly as he moved. He paused for a moment. "Come on!" he cried out, and gestured wildly for her to join him. She gave a small laugh, and carefully jumped up to where he sat, settling herself uncomfortably in a hollow where some of the pile had collapsed. Clopin leaned over to her, and tugged at the bottle she still held.

"What's this then?" she didn't have time to protest before he took it from her, and pulled the cork out with his teeth, spitting it to the floor. She watched as he looked at the small amount left, about an inch of the bottle, and took a gulp, but before he could swallow, he spat it out, showering the wood pile, coughing and spluttering. Katerina laughed and made to take back the bottle.

"Wasn't expecting that." he said hoarsely, giving a small laugh. He hesitated, then took a small swig, swallowing the drink with barely a grimace, as Katerina gave a shout of protest.

"_OI_! I... ugh." Clopin had finished the bottle. "I was hoping to have some myself you know. That's all I had left."

Clopin swayed a little, and examined the bottle. "What was it anyway?" it left a slight taste of potatoes, but it disappeared as he felt his tongue numbing.

"Poteen, Irish moonshine. You're lucky you didn't drink the lot."

"I could've!" he said, a little hurt. She smiled. It was good to see her smile again.

"It's strong." Clopin raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Very strong!" she persisted, "Even for you, your highness." She bowed her head mockingly. There was an odd burble of giggling, and a moment later, Clopin realised it had come from him.

"Right. Maybe it is a little strong. Where did you learn to make it?"

She shrugged. "Does it matter?" Although her tone was careless, her smile had faded.

Even in his slightly drunken state, he understood. Katerina didn't like talking about her past. He knew it must remind her of her brother, and of the outside world.

"Clopin?" she asked, so quietly he barely heard her, "How long have I been..." she paused, seemingly searching for the right word, before settling on - "here?"

"Eleven months, nine days." She looked a little surprised. He hadn't paused. He supposed he should have done, but the words had just slipped out. Then the corner of her mouth twitched upwards.

"Nearly a year then. Nearly one year since the cemetery. About a month since I last spoke to you."

Clopin laughed again.

"And by that you of course mean a month since I strangled you."

She did not laugh, but he saw her mouth twitch again, as she avoided his gaze.

"I've missed you. Did you know that?" Though she did not reply, he knew she was still listening. He should change the subject. "You haven't been speaking to anyone. You know, you are so often at the centre of attention that you are now quite well known. Guillaume Rousseau for example, the Emperor of Galilee himself has been watching you for a while I think. But you haven't noticed have you? You spend all your time locked up in here" he leaned forward and tapped the side of her head, which she brushed off, still not looking at him.

He knew she had noticed Rousseau's gaze, but as it fell on so many women, she was free to ignore it. Only then did Clopin realise he had wanted to see her reaction. To know what she thought of the great fat fool watching her. Perhaps because it had been so long since Katerina had watched him. "You haven't even been to my puppet shows of late. I have a new one you know." She gave a low chuckle.

"You are so proud!"

He was taken aback by this, but again found himself laughing.

"What? I don't know what you mean?"

"You are so proud of yourself. Can't you hear?" She put on an odd, unfamiliar voice. "I have a new puppet show! Come see my creation... or I'll hang you." It sounded nothing like him. Not a bit. Maybe a little. But he didn't talk like that. Often.

"Yes you do" she replied.

He started again. He had spoken aloud. As they both fell into laughter again, he jumped down from the woodstack.

"Come on! We need more wine!"

Clopin left for a few minutes, then returned with more to drink. What followed next was a blur, each moment fading into the other, but Katrina didn't care. She had forgotten how exhilarating spending time with Clopin could be at moments, no matter how short those moments were.

Sometime, he had placed his hat on her head. It would have been too large, were it not for her hair tangled with braids, which stopped it from falling over her face. Feeling stupid, she had handed it back, but he had just thrown it to the floor.

She remembered the two of them jumping back and forth over the remains of the fire for some reason, till she burned her heel with a sloppy landing.

At some point she had retched into the corner, but af ter washing out her mouth, she returned to the wine.

She also had a dim memory of talking. She had been apologising for how she acted, and was then explaining how she couldn't sleep. His response was to tell her how much she looked like a rake. Any other day she would have feigned offence, but she felt no need to. She just smiled.

"You know," he continued "It's because you don't sleep that you don't eat. Because you don't sleep or eat you drink, which makes you want to sleep but you still can't. And because you drink, each night you need more. It shouldn't be like that."

She didn't need to ask why he knew that. Judging from his state, his nightmares must be worse than hers.

She didn't know why, but Clopin asked her about her wedding, and for once she felt no reason not to answer. She told him what she considered to be the best part; how she had had to dance half the night, despite forgetting all the steps, and therefore shaming her entire family, though of course only her brother was present.

He pressed her to dance with him, which she refused, until finally, he hauled her to her feet and they began a bizarre amalgamation of movements, where she felt herself being picked up at unexpected moments and practically dragged around the court, the two of them singing and shouting different things, purely to distract from their movement. Clopin gave her no choice as he jumped about, and for once, she enjoyed it, until he would decide to run to another part of the room, yanking her arm hard as he changed direction, and each time

Finally they tripped over each other's feet, and lay panting on the floor, until the laughter faded and they stared at the smoke hovering about the ceiling. He pointed out the sparks and ashes floating in it.

"You see? We have our own stars in the underworld."

And then she had murmured:

"Sometimes, I still expect them to rain. They look like clouds, so I expect them to rain. I miss rain. Down here I can barely feel anything. There's fire and smoke, but up there, there's frost, ice and rain. And I've forgotten what the rain feels like."

He had no reason to do it. He just did. It always happened with her didn't it? Things he couldn't explain. He could not remember standing up, the first spot of memory was running through the catacombs, towing a blindfolded Katerina behind him. He ran to a door, and heaved it open, but did not step through it. He paused, and watched her.

She was frozen, her mouth hanging slightly open, having gasped at the sudden blast of cold air. Even as he pulled off her blindfold, she didn't open her eyes. And Clopin knew why. She must have thought she was dreaming, and did not want to wake up. As the cold woke his senses again, he watched the air spilling from her lips, in a shimmer of breath, saw her shiver a little, then finally, her eyelids flickered, and then flew open. For the first time in almost a year, Katerina stood on the edge of the outside world, and the rain beating down on the street in front of them was beckoning her forward.


End file.
